THE  WANDERERS. 

THE  FORTUNES  OF  GARIN.     Illustrated. 

THE   WITCH.    With  frontispiece. 

HAGAR. 

THE  LONG  ROLL.    The  first  of  two  books  dealing 

with  the  war  between  the  States.  With  Illustrations 

in  color  by  N  C.  WYBTH. 
CEASE  FIRING.     The  second  of  two  books  dealing 

with  the  war  between  the  States.  With   Illustrations 

in  color  by  N.  C.  WYBTH. 
LEWIS  RAND.     With  Illustrations  in  color  by  F.  C. 

YOHN. 

AUDREY.    With  Illustrations  in  color  by  F.  C.  YOHM. 
PRISONERS  OF  HOPE.     With  Frontispiece. 
TO  HAVE  AND  TO  HOLD.     With  8  Illustrations  by 

HOWARD  PYLE,  E.  B.  THOMPSON,  A.  W.  BETTS,  and 

EMLBN  MCCONNHLL. 

THE  GODDESS  OF  REASON.     A  Drama. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  WANDERERS 


\ 


iffiiTi  CoTTipany^ 


COHYKIGHT,    1917,    BY    MARY  JOHNSTON 
ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 

Published  September  IQIJ 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


CONTENTS 

I.  THE  FOREST         .       .       .       .    ' i 

II.  THE  CAVE      .       .       .     -.       .       .       •       •      ;       •     X3 

III.  BIG  TROUBLE        .       .       ...       .       .       .       -3* 

IV.  PROPERTY .„    .       .       ..       •       •     59 

V.  WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  ?        .       .       <.       .       .     "...     86 

VI.  THE  PROPHET      . "4 

VII.  THE  AMAZON        . -       -  139 

VIII.  THE  PRIESTESS  OF  MARDUK    .       .       .       .       .      .157 

IX.  GLAUCON  AND  MYRINA 17% 

X.  THE  PEARL  OF  THE  DEEP     .       .       .       ...   199 

XI.  THE  BANKS  OF  JUMUNA         .       ..."      .       .  223 

XII.  VALERIAN  AND  VALERIA 238 

XIII.  ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN .     .  -       .266 

XIV.  THE  HERMITS       .       .       . 292 

XV.  THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD      .       .       .       .       .       .  3J3 

XVI.  MOONLIGHT       ;  ". ".       •       •  345 

XVII.  THEKLA  AND  EBERHARD          .       .       .       .       •       .361 

XVIII.  THE  RIGHT  OF  KINGS -       -  389 

XIX.  JEAN  AND  ESPERANCE •  4°9 


THE  WANDERERS 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    FOREST 

TREES  and  trees  and  trees  —  a  world  of  trees!  Little 
size  and  middle  size  and  giant  size,  short  and  tall,  slen 
der  and  thick,  broad-leafed,  narrow-leafed,  rough-barked, 
smooth-barked,  dark  green,  bright  green,  one  solid  hue,  or 
spangled  or  variegated  with  many-coloured  flowers,  trees 
that  bore  nuts,  trees  that  bore  fruit,  and  trees  starkly  idle 
and  useless  to  a  frugivorous  folk!  Trees  and  trees  and 
trees  —  trees  leaning  their  heads  against  one  another,  trees 
pressing  side  to  side,  trees  tied  together  by  the  endless 
vines  going  looping  through  the  world;  trees  and  trees  and 
trees !  Overhead,  through  the  network,  showed  small  pieces 
of  sky;  big  pieces  of  sky  were  seen  only  when  you  came 
to  streams.  Sunlight  struck  down  in  flakes  or  darts,  never 
as  brightness  formless  and  unconfined.  At  night,  looking 
up  from  the  nestlike  arrangements  of  sticks  and  forest 
debris  heaped  between  the  forks  of  trees,  three  or  four 
stars  might  be  seen  at  once.  The  host  of  stars  was  rarely 
seen.  The  big  animals,  going  down  to  the  wider  streams  to 
drink,  might  see  the  heavens,  but,  as  a  general  thing,  the 
tree-folk  saw  only  the  forest.  As  a  general  thing.  Occa 
sionally,  in  their  lives,  the  horizon  inexplicably  widened 
or  the  zenith  went  up  higher.  The  big  animals  stood  and 
walked  so  that  their  eyes  were  not  of  much  use  when  it 


i  THE  WANDERERS 

came  to  things  on  top.  The  tree-folk  had  learned  how  to 
get  about  differently,  and  they  had  hands,  and  they  stood 
more  or  less  uprightly,  and  they  used  their  eyes  so  that 
they  saw  things  on  top  as  well  as  things  around  them,  and 
they  were  beginning  to  think,  and  they  had  great  curiosity. 

She  swung  herself  down  from  bough  to  bough  until  she 
touched  the  black  loam  and  the  trampled  plants  beneath 
the  tree.  She  had  a  young  one  clinging  to  her  neck.  The 
tree  was  a  bad  tree.  It  had  rocked  and  shaken  and  made 
a  noise  all  night.  She  was  so  angry  with  it  that  she  turned 
and  struck  it  with  her  hands  and  feet.  Then  she  settled 
the  young  one  upon  her  shoulder  and  went  off  to  a  thicket 
where  grew  very  good  fruit. 

But  the  day  had  begun  wrong.  A  lot  of  other  folk  were 
there,  too,  and  they  tried  to  push  her  away,  and  though 
she  got  her  breakfast  it  was  a  poor  one,  and  the  crowd 
was  a  quarrelsome,  scolding  crowd.  She  went  off  and  sat 
down  under  a  tree  and  looked  at  them.  A  thing  happened 
that,  in  her  individual  experience,  had  never  happened 
before.  She  experienced  a  distinct  feeling  of  being  out 
side  of  it  all  —  not  outside  with  a  sense  of  injury,  but 
quite  calmly  outside.  She  criticized  the  tree-folk. 

The  young  one  drummed  against  her  breast  with  its 
feet.  She  pulled  it  down  from  her  shoulder,  and  it  lay 
upon  her  knees,  and  she  smiled  at  it,  and  it  smiled  at  her. 
She  was  very  fond  of  it.  All  the  tree-folk  smiled  with  a  kind 
of  grimacing  smile,  using  only  the  lips.  But  now  this 
morning  a  second  thing  happened.  She  smiled  with  her 
eyes.  It  gave  her  a  very  singular  feeling,  a  feeling  that 
linked  itself  with  the  earlier  one. 

This  tree  was  thin-topped.  Looking  up,  she  saw  quite 
unusual  pieces  of  sky.  Across  the  largest  a  white  cloudlet 


THE  FOREST  3 

went  sailing.  The  folk  in  the  fruit  thicket  fell  into  a  tre 
mendous  quarrel,  yelling  at  one  another.  She  scrambled 
to  her  feet  and  made  the  sound  that  meant,  "Get  on  my 
back  and  hold  tight!  We  are  going  to  travel."  The  young 
one  obeyed  and  the  two  set  forth. 

Trees,  trees,  trees,  trees!  fighting  for  breathing  space, 
shouldering  away  their  fellows,  sucking  each  its  hardest 
from  the  earth,  striving  each  its  hardest,  out  with  its 
arms,  up  with  its  head,  up  to  the  light!  and  all  tied  to 
gether,  tied  together  with  endlessly  looping  ropes,  green 
and  brown  and  grey,  cupped  and  starred  and  fringed  with 
purple  and  orange  and  white  and  scarlet!  Over  all  and 
from  all  the  creepers  stretched  and  dangled.  Trees  and 
trees  and  trees!  helplessly  many,  chained  each  to  the  other. 
Sometimes  she  and  the  young  one  travelled  in  the  trees 
and  over  the  stretched  brown  ropes,  and  sometimes  she 
made  her  way  through  the  cane  and  fern  and  wild  and 
varied  growths  that  overspread  the  fat  black  earth  out  of 
which  had  burst  the  trees.  The  coloured  birds  whistled 
and  shrieked,  and  now  and  again,  in  the  green  gloom,  she 
heard  tree-folk  calling  and  answering.  But  she  avoided 
the  tree-folk.  She  was  still  critical. 

It  grew  dark  in  the  universal  forest.  The  red  and  green 
and  orange  birds  ceased  whistling,  and  the  insect  people 
whirring  and  chirping.  The  butterflies  went  to  their  bark 
homes. 

"Uuugh!"  she  said, — which  meant,  "Lightning  will  flash 
and  thunder  will  roll,  trees  will  snap,  water  will  come  down, 
and  the  air  will  grow  cold!" 

It  all  happened,  just  in  that  order.  She  and  the  young 
one  found  an  overhanging  rock  with  a  rock  floor  beneath. 
They  crept  into  the  opening  that  was  like  the  jaws  of  a 


4  THE   WANDERERS 

monster,  and  cowered,  their  faces  down.  Ugh!  the  light 
in  sheets  and  the  noise!  There  was  not,  this  time,  much 
water.  She  hated  water  when  it  came  like  this,  cold  and 
stinging,  just  as  she  loved  it  when  it  presented  itself  in 
pools  when  one  was  thirsty  and  hot  with  racing  through 
trees.  She  had  not  as  yet  worked  it  out  that  it  was  lovely 
or  hateful  according  to  the  angle  from  which  it  was  ap 
proached,  that  the  water  apparently  did  not  plan  what  it 
should  do  nor  how  it  should  come,  and  that  it  was  you 
yourself  who  accomplished  that  partition  into  qualities. 
If  she  reasoned  at  all,  it  was  to  the  effect  that  the  water 
very  actively  cared,  now  hating  and  now  helping.  The 
young  one  whimpered  and  whimpered,  and  it  irritated  her, 
and  she  beat  it.  Yelling,  it  rolled  away  from  her  to  the 
other  end  of  the  rock  floor.  And  then  the  bright  light 
and  the  horrible  noise  stopped,  and  the  water  ceased  to 
dash  against  her  like  cold,  wet  leaves,  and  the  sun  came 
out  sudden  and  strong,  and  a  snake  crept  over  the  rock, 
coiled  and  darted  its  head  above  the  young  one  that 
was  lying  sobbing  to  itself.  She  saw  the  snake  and  she 
screeched  with  terror,  then  she  leaped  and  caught  it  with 
both  hands  just  below  the  head  that  was  flat  and  pointed 
like  a  leaf  and  dragged  it  away  from  the  young  one.  It 
writhed  and  lashed  about  and  struck  at  her,  but  she  held 
it  tighter  and  tighter,  and  trampled  it  with  her  feet,  and 
choked  it  until  it  was  dead.  Then  she  flung  it  from  her, 
over  the  rock,  and  shivered  with  her  shoulders,  and  then 
she  gathered  up  the  young  one,  and  the  two  travelled  on. 
They  travelled  nearly  all  day,  seeing  nothing  but  trees 
and  the  plants  that  hid  the  soil  from  sight,  and  the  inhab 
itants  of  trees  and  the  folk  whose  feet  had  always  to  be 
upon  the  earth.  The  world  was  anything  but  unpopulous. 


THE  FOREST  5 

There  were  beings  who  flew  and  beings  who  climbed  and 
beings  who  crept  or  glided,  and  beings  who  walked  four- 
footed,  and  the  tree-folk  who  both  walked  and  climbed. 
When  she  came  to  the  hot,  still,  narrow  streams  which  she 
crossed  by  means  of  the  festooned  creepers,  she  saw  beings 
who  swam. 

It  grew  late.  Where  was  any  space  for  the  shadow  of  a 
tree  to  fall,  it  fell.  Always  the  world  was  quiet  in  the  great 
heat  of  the  middle  day.  Evening  was  the  time  when  all  the 
world  began  to  talk  at  once  —  all,  that  is,  but  the  big 
animals.  They  waited  for  full  night,  and  then  they  roared 
—  they  roared!  The  tree-folk  were  afraid  of  the  big  ani 
mals,  dreadfully  afraid. 

The  young  one  was  hungry.  She  pulled  it  across  her 
shoulder  to  her  breast  and  gave  it  milk,  and  at  the  next 
fruit  tree  they  came  to  she  stopped  and  got  her  own  supper. 
By  the  time  this  was  done  it  was  almost  night.  Before  her 
there  showed  an  opening  where  grass  grew.  It  sloped  to  a 
stream  and  it  supported  two  or  three  tall,  creeper-clad 
trees.  Through  the  bushes  about  the  supper  tree  came 
a  curious,  dancing  light.  Observing  this,  she  followed 
the  instinct  of  all  tree-folk  and  crept  forward  to  see  what 
might  be  seen. 

One  of  the  trees  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  and  it 
had  fallen  upon  the  earth.  It  lay  there  all  its  length,  and 
it  was  afire.  She  and  the  young  one  sat  beneath  the 
bushes  and  watched  it  with  awed  interest.  In  their  his 
tory,  tree-folk  had  met  with  this  phenomenon  often 
enough  to  learn  that  you  must  not  touch,  that  you  must 
not  even  go  very  close.  When  you  did  so,  it  was  worse 
than  all  kinds  of  big  animals! 

The  flame  flickered  in  and  out  among  the  branches  and 


6  THE   WANDERERS 

ran  along  the  trunk.  A  light  smoke  curled  up,  and  she 
could  hear  the  tree  talking.  It  made  a  crackling  talk.  The 
burning  mass  warmed  and  lit  the  dusk.  She  and  the 
young  one  were  so  interested  that  they  went  closer  and 
closer.  It  occurred  to  her  to  find  out  how  close  you  could 
go.  So  she  went  cautiously,  cautiously,  very  close  in 
deed.  Up  to  a  certain  point  that  was  pleasant  enough,  but 
one  step  farther  on  it  began  to  sting.  She  jerked  back, 
frightened,  but  fascinated.  Now  again  it  was  pleasant.  It 
seemed  that  it  was  angry  only  when  you  came  too  close. 
Keep  a  little  away  and  it  was  the  best  of  friends!  She  and 
the  young  one  sat  on  the  ground  and  thought  about  it. 
A  long,  broken  bough,  slender  and  bare  as  a  bamboo,  hap 
pened  to  lie  there,  one  end  touching  the  fiery  tree,  the 
other  close  to  her  hand.  Her  hand  chanced  to  close  upon 
it,  as  it  might  have  closed  upon  creeper  or  young  bough 
in  the  trees.  Something  more  happened.  She  lifted  this 
stick  with  the  fire  at  one  end  like  a  pennant,  lifted  it  and 
moved  it  to  and  fro,  the  fire  making  lines  and  circles  in 
the  air. 

Her  brain  worked.  The  stick  gave  her  a  long  arm,  an 
arm  much  longer  than  anybody  else's,  with  active,  bright 
fingers  at  the  end  of  it.  If  you  could  take  it  with  you  — 
No  one  had  ever  thought  of  carrying  the  bright,  stinging 
thing.  .  .  .  The  flame  blew  down  the  stick  toward  her  and 
she  was  horribly  frightened.  Dropping  the  bough  she 
picked  up  the  young  one  and  fled. 

In  the  shortest  of  times  it  was  dark  night.  Day  stayed 
only  where  was  the  red,  stinging  thing.  She  was  in  a  region 
of  cane  and  bush.  That  was  not  safe — she  and  the  young 
one  must  get  back  to  tree-land.  And  then,  just  as  she  was 
puckering  her  brows  over  this,  she  heard  the  big  animal. 


THE  FOREST  7 

The  big  animal  came  against  her  through  the  canes. 
She  caught  the  rustling  sound  they  made  when  they  were 
brushed  aside,  and  she  heard  breathing  and  she  saw  eye 
balls  in  the  dark.  Screeching,  she  turned  with  the  young 
one  and  ran.  There  were  no  trees,  no  trees  —  no  safety 
—  only  blind,  exceeding  terror!  The  big  animal  was  com 
ing  —  the  big  animal  was  coming  —  it  was  sending  its 
voice  before  it.  The  young  one,  screeching  too,  gripped 
her  fast.  She  tore  through  the  cane,  back  the  way  she  had 
come,  and  the  big  animal  with  glaring  eyes  rushed  after 
her.  It  was  coming  in  bounds  —  closer,  oh,  closer!  She 
broke  through  the  cane,  into  that  open  space  where  the 
tree  still  burned.  The  pursuer  came  after  her  and  the 
young  one.  It  was  big  and  hungry.  She  felt  its  hot  breath. 
Face  over  shoulder,  she  saw  its  bared  teeth.  She  found  a 
voice  that  was  human;  she  shrieked.  Along  the  ground 
lay  the  brand  that,  a  while  ago,  she  had  lifted  and  waved. 
It  was  shorter  than  it  had  been,  but  yet  it  was  fit  for  use. 
She  snatched  it  up,  turned  and  thrust  it,  flaming,  against 
the  muzzle  of  the  big  animal.  She  made  deliberate  use  of 
fire.  The  beast  that  was  after  her  roared  and  drew  back, 
then  made  to  come  on  again.  With  all  her  strength  she 
fought  it  over  the  eyes  with  fire.  Roaring  with  pain,  it 
turned  and  fled.  She  threw  down  the  flaming  staff,  and 
with  the  young  one  on  her  back,  chattering  wildly,  never 
stopped  until  the  forest  was  about  her,  until,  finding  a 
tree  with  a  sinewy,  swinging  curtain  of  vine,  she  had 
drawn  herself  and  the  young  one  up  from  bough  to  bough, 
up  to  where,  on  high,  in  the  comfortable  fork  of  two  great 
branches,  she  reached  what  she  esteemed  as  safety. 

Night  passed,  dawn  came.  It  came  still  and  red,  with  a 
mist  over  a  water  where  long-legged,  long-billed,  scarlet- 


8  THE   WANDERERS 

and-white  bird  people  waded  about.  They  fished  or  stood 
on  one  leg  pondering  the  universe,  or  not  pondering  it, 
as  you  choose.  She  and  the  young  one  looked  down  a 
clear  forty  feet  and  saw  great  roots  of  trees  and  between 
them  black,  yielding  earth.  The  light  strengthened,  and 
they  leaped  and  slid  and  swung  out  of  this  tree  into  an 
other,  and  then  another,  and  so  they  went  by  trees  and 
trees  and  trees  until  they  came  to  firm  ground  and  saw 
below  them  bushes  with  fruit.  The  young  one  locked  its 
hands  about  her  neck  and  she  sprang  and  swung,  now 
upon  this  bough,  now  with  this  liana  between  her  hands. 
So  they  came  to  the  ground  and  the  fruit  bushes  that  were 
all  covered  with  bloomy,  purple  orbs.  It  was  a  good  and 
quiet  breakfast.  There  were  creeping  folk  and  flying  folk  in 
this  part  of  the  world,  but  she  saw  and  heard  no  tree-folk. 
She  and  the  young  one  sat  down  upon  the  ground.  The 
young  one  fell  to  pulling  at  some  tufts  of  grass,  patting 
them  and  making  its  own  range  of  sounds,  but  she  sat  with 
her  chin  on  her  knees  and  her  eyes  down.  Yet  another 
thing  was  happening.  All  tree-folk,  of  course,  remembered ; 
even  the  big  animals  did  that;  everybody  did  it.  But  they 
did  not  know  that  they  remembered;  they  never  gave  the 
matter  a  thought.  To  their  apprehension,  each  day  was 
taken  up  de  novo.  But  now  not  only  did  she  remember, 
but  she  was  aware  that  she  remembered.  Not  clearly,  of 
course,  only  vaguely,  but  still  aware.  She  was  going  over, 
she  was  returning  to  a  time  that  was  not  this  present  time. 
The  big  animal,  his  eyes  and  claws  and  teeth  —  the 
bright  thing  jumping  up  and  down  and  climbing  over  the 
tree  on  the  ground  —  the  feel  of  it,  pleasant  when  you 
were  a  little  way  off,  but  the  most  dreadful  bite  of  all  if 
you  touched  it!  ...  Back  of  the  bright  thing  was  the 


THE   FOREST  9 

storm,  and  the  snake  that  had  tried  to  bite  the  young 
one,  and  back  of  that  was  the  poor  breakfast,  and  the 
quarrelsome  crowd  of  tree-folk,  and  how  strange  and  un 
familiar  they  had  all  of  a  sudden  looked  to  her.  And  back 
of  that — but  she  could  not  go  any  farther  back.  It  was 
as  though  there  were  a  deep  stream,  and  the  creeper  that 
had  stretched  across  was  broken.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  bright  thing  to  which  she  returned  most 
fully  —  the  bright  thing  and  the  stick.  Beneath  the  fruit 
trees  lay  enough  of  broken  and  dead  wood.  Her  hand 
went  out  to  the  nearest  piece,  which  she  lifted  and  with 
some  delight  brandished.  She  spoke.  As  yet  her  language 
was  almost  as  limited  as  that  of  the  big  animals,  but  what 
she  meant  was,  "I  have  a  long  arm!  —  a  longer  arm  than 
anybody  else's  1"  Three  or  four  feet  away  a  lizard  lay  on  a 
stone.  She  touched  it  with  the  stick.  Then,  as  it  raised  its 
head,  she  struck  with  force  and  killed  it.  This  result  caused 
her  to  chatter  with  surprise.  She  had  not  been  angry  with 
the  lizard  —  she  had  not  laid  hand  or  foot  upon  it.  The 
long  arm  had  killed  it  —  but  she  had  moved  the  long  arm. 
She  knew  certain  aspects  of  death  well  enough.  That  liz 
ard,  no  more  than  the  snake  of  yesterday,  would  run  about 
again! 

She  sat  and  thought.  Then  she  took  the  stick  and,  ris 
ing,  struck  with  it  at  a  cluster  of  purple  fruit  which  had 
been  beyond  reach.  The  fruit  came  tumbling  down  upon 
the  grass.  The  long  arm  was  good,  then,  for  that,  too. 

Out  of  the  wood  came  one  of  the  tree-folk  — •  one  of  the 
other  kind,  the  kind  that  did  not  carry  young  ones  around 
with  them,  the  kind  into  which  half  of  the  young  ones 
grew.  He  was  at  some  distance,  and  did  not  at  once  see 
her.  She  stood  and  watched  him  coming. 


io  THE   WANDERERS 

The'  two  were  about  of  a  height,  but  the  other  kind  — 
because  it  did  not  have  young  ones,  and  did  not  have  to 
spend  much  of  its  time  gambolling  with  young  ones  and 
watching  young  ones,  because  it  roamed  more,  because  it 
had,  perhaps,  a  certain  surplus  of  explosive  energy  which 
set  it  to  contending  with  its  fellows  or  sent  it,  day  and 
night,  howling  and  racing  through  the  trees,  because  of 
this  and  because  of  that  —  the  other  kind  was  ahead  in 
muscular  development.  Muscular  development  meant  a 
heightened  muscular  sense.  The  other  kind  had,  un 
doubtedly,  a  somewhat  greater  delight  in  movement  and 
action,  from  which,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  might  spring 
a  certain  initiative  in  enterprise,  and  a  vast  and  various 
network  of  results.  The  kind  that  had  young  ones,  nursed 
them  and  carried  them  about,  had  its  superiorities,  too, 
due  again  to  a  range  of  matters  beyond  its  present  com 
prehension.  But  neither  of  them  knew  about  his  or  her 
own  or  the  other's  superiorities.  They  were  a  very  simple 
folk  —  tree-folk. 

The  other  kind  now  saw  her,  and  after  an  instant  of 
gazing,  came  on.  Although  she  had  been  so  critical,  yes 
terday,  of  the  tree-folk,  she  found  —  measuring  by  her 
standards  —  she  found  this  one  rather  a  strong  and  comely 
individual.  She  had  travelled,  relatively  speaking,  a  long 
way  without  any  other  company  than  the  young  one. 
She  certainly  experienced  a  sensation  of  friendliness. 

The  two  stood  jabbering  at  the  edge  of  the  wood.  She 
had  dropped  the  stick,  but  now  she  stooped  and  picking  it 
up  flourished  it  about  and  with  the  end  struck  off  a  clus 
ter  of  fruit.  Parade  and  showing  off  —  however  they  got 
into  the  world,  here  they  were!  The  other  kind  gave  a 
deep  screech  of  surprise,  then  stood,  spellbound,  watching 


THE   FOREST  n 

this  so  marvellous  performance,  then  by  degrees,  became 
wildly  excited.  He  put  out  both  hands,  seized  the  stick, 
and  tried  to  take  it  from  her.  There  was  much  wood  upon 
the  ground,  but  he  could  not  conceive  that  any  other  piece 
would  serve.  She  had  the  only  stick. 

She  resisted,  and  they  quarrelled,  both  clutching  the 
stick,  jabbering  each  at  the  other.  Both  put  forth  force 
to  keep  the  thing  that  knocked  down  fruit.  But  there 
was  actually  more  strength  in  his  long  arms  and  large 
hands  than  in  hers.  He  wrested  the  stick  from  her  and 
grinned  with  delight  in  its  possession. 

It  is  probable  that,  of  late,  changes  had  been  occurring 
among  the  particles  of  his  own  brain.  Probably  he,  too, 
had  been  making  discoveries.  Neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  might  corner  discovery.  At  any  rate,  he  now  began 
to  experiment  with  the  stick.  He  knocked  from  the  tree 
all  the  purple  fruit  in  reach,  and  then  he  sat  down  upon 
the  ground  and  with  the  end  of  the  staff  scraped  at  the 
earth  and  beat  the  grass  flat.  His  interest  in  what  he  was 
doing  grew  and  grew.  She  had  gone  away,  sulking,  to  the 
young  one.  But  it  was  impossible  long  to  resist  the  fas 
cination  of  this  new  extension  of  power.  She  came  and  sat 
down  in  the  grass  and  watched.  She  was  friendly  again, 
and  he,  too,  having  the  stick,  was  gracious.  He  was 
a  young,  strong,  well-looking  member  of  the  tree-folk. 
Lying  about  were  some  small  stones,  miniature  boulders. 
He  struck  the  end  of  the  stick  beneath  one  of  these,  put  his 
weight  upon  the  other  end,  and  lifted  the  stone  out  of  its 
bed.  The  lever  was  here.  Both  of  them  jabbered  with 
excitement.  There  were  other  stones.  She  wanted  to  dis 
turb  one,  too,  and  she  came  across  and  put  her  hand  upon 
the  stick.  " Let  me!"  meant  the  sound  which  she  uttered. 


12  THE   WANDERERS 

But  he  jabbered  back,  and  shook  her  off,  and  went  on 
turning  over  stones.  Very  angry,  she  returned  to  the 
charge,  and,  watching  her  chance,  suddenly  jerked  the 
stick  from  him.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  seized  it  again. 
She  screamed  at  him  and  held  it  stubbornly  —  a  good, 
thick  piece  of  wood  it  was!  The  other  kind,  now  in  a  vio 
lent  passion,  tugged  and  wrenched  until  he  got  it  from 
her.  Then,  with  suddenness,  he  found  yet  another  use 
for  a  piece  of  wood.  He  knocked  her  down  with  it,  and 
when,  with  a  cry  of  fury,  she  rose  to  her  feet,  he  repeated 
the  action. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    CAVE 

THE  rocks  rose  in  tiers  to  a  stark  height  above  the  dark 
and  tangled  wood.  From  their  feet  sloped  away  to  the 
floor  of  mould  a  runway  of  stones  great  and  small.  Long 
ago,  long,  long  ago,  water  had  honeycombed  the  cliff. 

A  great  stone,  shaped  like  a  fir-cone,  masked  half  the 
cave  mouth.  A  gnarled,  rock-clinging  tree  helped  with  the 
other  half.  When  the  cave  woman  had  found  food  and 
would  bring  it  home,  she  looked  first  for  the  tree  and  then 
for  the  stone. 

Sometimes,  for  a  long  while,  food  was  easy  to  get  — 
that  is  to  say,  comparatively  easy.  Then,  for  a  long  time, 
food  might  be  hard  to  get.  There  were  times  when  food- 
getting  took  strength  and  cunning  and  patience  in  excess. 
Such  was  this  time,  and  it  had  lasted  long.  So  long  had 
it  lasted  that  everything  in  the  world  seemed  to  be  hungry. 

The  cone-shaped  stone  and  the  ragged  tree  kept  full 
sunshine  from  the  cave,  but  a  fair  amount  entered  in 
shafts  and  splashes.  Four  children  played  in  the  light  and 
shadow.  Naked,  with  sticks  and  stones  and  a  snare  made 
from  the  red  fibre  of  a  vine,  they  played  at  being  hunters. 
They  jumped  and  dodged  and  screamed;  they  hid  behind 
outcropping  folds  of  rock;  now  one  was  the  quarry  and 
now  another.  When  they  tired  of  that,  they  sat  down  and 
tossed  and  caught  round,  shining  pebbles,  brought  to 
them  by  the  mother  from  a  stream  she  had  crossed.  After 
a  time  they  grew  hungry  and  easily  angered.  One  struck 


i4  THE   WANDERERS 

another  and  they  fought.  That  over,  a  common  void  and 
weakness  drew  them  again  together.  The  sun  was  getting 
low,  the  orange  light  going  away  from  the  littered  cavern 
floor.  They  felt  cold.  Back  in  the  cave  was  heaped  dry 
wood  from  the  floor  of  the  forest,  and  to  one  side,  guarded 
by  a  circle  of  flat  stones,  a  little  fire  was  burning.  Never 
were  the  children  to  burn  too  great  a  fire,  and  never  were 
they  to  let  what  was  there  go  out!  Now  they  sat  around 
it  whimpering.  The  oldest  crawled  into  the  dimness  of 
the  cavern  and,  bringing  back  an  armful  of  small  sticks, 
put  two  crosswise  in  the  flame.  Warmth  was  good, 
and  the  flickering  light  did  for  sunbeams.  Three  sat 
hunched  around  the  fire,  while  the  littlest  one  lay  and 
sucked  its  thumb  for  lack  of  other  food,  and  went  at  last 
to  sleep.  The  next  to  the  littlest  nodded,  nodded,  and 
then  it,  too,  slept,  close  to  the  littlest  for  warmth.  The 
eldest  was  a  girl  and  the  next  a  boy.  Shag-haired,  naked, 
lean,  they  watched  and  fed  the  fire,  and  with  growing 
hunger  watched  the  entrance.  Daylight  grew  colder  and 
thinner.  They  got  up  and  went  to  the  cave  mouth.  The 
tree  and  the  cone-shaped  rock  blocked  vision.  The  law 
giver  had  forbidden  the  four  to  show  themselves  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  tree  and  the  rock.  If  they  did,  all  the 
ill  of  the  world  would  fall  upon  them.  At  least,  they  knew 
that  the  lawgiver's  hand  would  fall  upon  them. 

The  two  children  went  back  into  the  cave.  In  a  corner  lay 
a  pile  of  skins  —  both  short  hair  and  thick  fur.  They  took 
two  of  these  and  wrapped  themselves  in  them.  The  light 
grew  colder  and  thinner.  They  were  so  hungry  that  tears 
came  out  of  their  eyes.  The  littlest  one  waked  and  cried. 

The  two  eldest  wandered  again  to  the  cave  mouth. 
They  wanted  so  badly  to  see  if  the  provider  were  coming. 


THE  CAVE  15 

From  the  other  side  of  the  big  stone  they  could  look  down 
the  runway  of  stones,  they  could  see  some  way  into  the 
wood.  They  stood  and  stared  at  the  concealing  face  of 
the  big  stone  and  the  concealing,  twisted  trunk  of  the 
tree,  and  the  tears  ran  down  their  cheeks.  The  feet  of  the 
eldest  one  moved  uncertainly,  then  with  more  assur 
ance.  She  moved  out  of  the  cave  mouth  and  around  the 
great  stone,  beckoning  to  the  next  eldest  to  follow.  He  ran 
after  her.  Shag-haired,  with  skins  from  the  heap  gath 
ered  around  them,  they  came  in  front  of  the  masking 
stone  and  tree.  Here  the  light  was  stronger,  was  as  yet 
quite  strong. 

They  looked  down  the  stony  slope,  and  they  peered 
under  the  thick  trees  at  its  base,  but  nowhere  could  they 
see  the  provider.  She  had  been  gone  a  long  time.  The 
world  looked  cold  and  harsh  and  terrifying  to  the  chil 
dren.  .  .  .  Yet  it  was  hard  to  go  back  into  the  cave,  when, 
if  they  stayed  out  here,  they  might  the  sooner  see  the 
provider.  They  stayed,  two  small  shapes  huddled  at  the 
top  of  the  runway  of  stones. 

Something  moved  in  the  wood  below.  Bushes  and  little 
trees  bent  this  way  or  that.  Something  that  was  strong 
was  moving.  The  children's  mouths  opened,  they  raised 
themselves  to  their  knees.  The  bushes  shook  again  and 
nearer  to  the  stony  slope;  there  was  heard  the  snapping 
of  a  branch.  The  children  scrambled  to  their  feet.  The 
provider  must  not  see  them  out  here  —  if  she  did,  there 
would  be  blows.  The  thought  arrived,  maybe  it  was  not 
the  provider!  Terror  took  them — -they  turned  in  haste. 
One  struck  foot  against  a  root  of  a  tree,  was  thrown 
down,  delaying  both.  Open-mouthed,  they  looked  over 
shoulder,  and  saw  that  it  was  not  the  provider. 


T  6  THE   WANDERERS 

A  man  with  a  great  fell  of  hair,  with  a  club  and  with  a 
skin  filled  with  stones  for  throwing,  came  from  the  deep 
wood  into  the  straggling  growth  at  the  base  of  the  tiers 
of  rock.  Hunter  on  his  own  account,  and  fierce  from  lack 
of  luck,  he  had  pushed  from  his  own  lair  farther  in  this 
direction  than  he  had  ever  done  before.  Such  was  the 
adversity  of  the  times  that  all  hunters,  human  or  brute, 
must  widen  their  hunting-grounds.  This  hunter  had  wid 
ened  his.  He  was,  moreover,  a  strong  hunter  and  quick  of 
eye.  And  yet  so  bad  were  the  times  that  he  often  went 
hungry  —  as  now. 

Clear  of  the  great  wood,  he  came  before  the  line  of  cliffs 
that  he  had  not  seen  before.  Hereabouts  was  strange  to 
him.  He  stood  still,  and  his  gaze  swept  the  rocks.  Pres 
ently  it  fell  upon  the  two  human  children  at  the  top  of 
the  runway.  He  stared,  resting  on  his  club.  Then,  from 
the  wood  ahead,  some  sound  that  he  knew  how  to  inter 
pret  caught  his  ear.  He  bent  his  head  aside.  The  sound 
came  again.  His  eye  saw  the  light  disturbance  of  the 
undergrowth.  Doe  and  fawn,  he  caught  their  movement, 
doe  and  fawn  passing  that  way.  Instantly,  he  was  hunter 
of  flesh,  hunter  upon  their  trail.  As  he  had  come,  so  he 
vanished.  The  children  saw  only  the  stony  way  and  the 
wood  again.  A  panic  took  them;  they  turned,  and,  crying 
out,  rushed  past  the  stone  and  the  twisted  tree,  back  into 
the  cave. 

The  light  lowered  still.  Out  of  the  wood  to  the  base 
of  the  cliffs  and  then  to  the  stony  runway  came  another 
hunter.  This  one,  too,  had  had  scant  luck  —  roving  all 
day,  and  now  with  naught  to  show  but  nuts  and  roots  and 
of  these  none  too  many.  She  carried  them  slung  in  a  skin. 
She  had  a  club  and  a  snare  of  green  withes.  She  wore 


THE  CAVE  17 

upon  her  body,  for  warmth  and  for  protection  against  the 
thorns  and  briars  of  the  world,  the  pelt  of  some  forest 
beast.  She  was  largely  made  and  strong,  and  down  her 
back  fell  a  mass  of  darkly  red  and  tangled  hair.  She 
climbed  the  runway.  The  children,  cowering  beside  the 
fire,  saw  her  at  the  cave  mouth,  and  set  up  a  yelping 
welcome. 

Seated  upon  the  cavern  floor,  she  took  up  and  suckled 
the  littlest  one.  Such  scarcity  was  there  that  she  herself 
was  hungry,  and  there  was  not  much  milk.  The  littlest 
one  fretted  yet  when  she  pushed  it  away.  She  broke  the 
nuts  she  had  brought  between  two  stones.  The  roots  she 
pounded  and  shredded.  She  and  her  young  had  supper. 
No  one  had  food  enough  to  satisfy.  They  ate  greedily 
what  there  was,  to  the  last  kernel  and  shred.  Language 
was  a  scanty  thing.  Uncombined  guttural  or  high-pitched 
sounds  answered  well  enough  for  three  fourths  of  com 
munication.  But  they  had  a  certain  number  of  words  of 
action,  relation,  and  naming.  Mother  and  children  talked 
together  after  a  fashion.  The  children  talked  of  food, 
more  food.  She  answered  sharply,  then  gave  the  youngest 
her  breast  again,  then  sat  with  her  chin  upon  her  knees, 
staring  into  the  flame.  The  younger  children  slept  at  last, 
lying  upon  and  under  the  skins  in  the  corner  of  the  cave. 
The  eldest  stayed  for  a  time  by  the  fire  and  the  brooding 
form  of  the  mother.  The  eldest  looked  at  the  flame  and 
the  shadows  that  chased  one  another  around  the  cave, 
and  at  the  black  cave  mouth.  She  was  not  going  to  tell 
the  lawgiver  about  the  other  hunter,  for  that  would  be 
to  say  that  she  had  gone  out  of  the  cave,  beyond  the 
hiding  rock  and  tree.  Avoid  your  penalties  —  outwit  your 
karma  —  was  a  policy  attempted  as  early  and  earlier  than 


1 8  THE    WANDERERS 

that.    The  lawgiver  herself  often  attempted  it,  as  had 
done  the  mother  and  lawgiver  before  her. 

The  provider  lifted  her  head  from  her  knees,  banked 
the  ashes  over  the  red  embers,  and  gave  utterance  to  a 
row  of  half-articulate  sounds  that  meant,  "Dead  tired. — 
Hunting  all  day  without  luck.  —  Hard  world.  —  Go  to 
sleep!"  So  saying,  she  got  to  her  feet  and,  moving  to  the 
cave  mouth,  looked  out  into  the  darkness.  Hard-to-get- 
food  meant  all  kinds  of  added  insecurities.  She  went  in 
front  of  the  tree  and  stone  and  looked  down  the  runway 
and  to  either  hand  along  the  base  of  the  cliff.  Not  one 
of  her  senses  took  alarm.  It  was  a  quiet  night,  without 
sight  or  sound  or  scent  or  forward-reaching  touch  of  any 
hurtful  approach.  Returning  to  the  cave,  she  moved  past 
the  red  eye  of  the  fire  to  the  heap  of  skins.  The  girl  was 
already  there.  Mother  and  children  lay  wreathed  together 
under  the  pelts.  At  hand  rested  the  club  and  a  pile  of 
stones,  and  lightwood  waited  by  the  covered  embers. 

The  still  night  went  by.  Howsoever  heavy  the  pro 
vider's  sleep,  the  first  light  wakened  her,  when,  cool  and 
grey,  it  came  creeping  into  the  cavern.  The  elder  children 
she  shook  awake.  The  littlest  one  waked  of  its  own  ac 
cord  and  began  a  wailing  crying.  She  suckled  it,  and  it 
stilled  itself  for  a  time.  The  girl  and  boy  scraped  away 
the  ashes  and  put  fresh  sticks  upon  the  fire.  But  there 
was  no  breakfast  for  them  nor  for  the  provider.  The 
latter  took  her  long,  heavy,  and  knotted  club,  took  the 
skin  shaped  to  hold  matters  or  food  or  missiles,  and  the 
flint  flake  chipped  to  the  semblance  of  a  knife  blade.  She 
threatened  the  children  with  beatings  if  they  left  the  cave, 
and  then  left  it  herself  and  passed  down  the  runway  of 
stones  into  the  forest  where  even  the  trees  looked  hungry. 


THE   CAVE  19 

All  day  long  the  children  waited,  now  so  pinched  with 
hunger  that  it  was  a  pity  to  see  their  faces.  They  did  not 
play  much  to-day;  they  quarrelled  and  wept,  and  lay  by 
the  smouldering  fire,  their  elfish  faces  hidden  upon  their 
thin  arms.  Once  the  boy  and  girl  went  out  of  the  cave 
mouth  and  peered  cautiously  around  the  edge  of  the  great 
stone.  They  saw  nothing,  neither  the  provider  coming 
back,  nor  the  hunter  of  yesterday,  nor  any  moving  thing 
but  the  tree-tops  shaken  by  the  wind,  and  some  round 
white  clouds  adrift  in  the  sky,  and  an  eagle  soaring  above 
the  cl iff- tops,  looking,  too,  for  food. 

Came  a  splendour  of  sunset,  beating  against  the  tiers 
of  rock,  making  them  red  and  purple.  The  provider 
emerged  from  the  wood,  and  over  her  shoulder  hung  spoil 
and  food  —  hung  a  game  bird  of  the  largest  kind,  a  wat 
tled,  bronze-feathered  colossus  among  birds!  The  dark 
red  mass  of  her  hair  mingled  with  its  plumage.  Triumph 
breathed  around  her;  she  set  her  foot  lightly  on  lichen 
and  stone. 

She  had  tied  leaves  and  moss  so  that  blood  might  not 
fall  from  the  borne  victim.  When  she  came  to  the  run 
way,  when  she  was  about  to  mount  the  stony  slope,  she 
noticed  red  drops.  Leaves  and  moss  had  slipped.  Fur 
rows  came  into  her  brow.  She  drew  her  prey  before  her 
and  adjusted  that  covering.  The  light  was  withdrawing. 
Though  she  turned  and  looked  at  her  backward-stretch 
ing  path,  she  could  not  tell  in  the  dimness  of  the  world 
if  there  were  other  drops  of  blood,  if  there  were  downy 
feathers.  Dusk  was  growing  —  she  was  savage  from 
famine  —  home  was  up  there  and  her  hungry  brood.  She 
hoped  for  the  best,  hoped  that  there  were  about  no  prowl 
ers  of  dangerous  size,  and  set  her  foot  upon  the  incline 


20  THE   WANDERERS 

that  led  to  her  door.  The  children,  looking  out,  saw  her 
coming.  .  .  . 

They  built  the  fire  up  until  it  crackled  and  flung  light 
into  all  but  the  deepest  crannies  of  the  cave.  How  warm 
it  was,  how  genial!  They  plucked  the  bird,  and  air  stream 
ing  in  at  the  entrance  blew  the  bronze  feathers  about. 
The  uses  of  fire  were  many  and  good,  —  meat  was  better 
brought  near  to  fire,  left  there  for  a  time.  They  put  the 
meat  upon  a  flat  stone  and  shoved  it  into  a  ring  of  ar 
dent  heat,  and  presently  it  was  improved  to  their  taste. 
The  provider,  with  her  sharpened  flake  of  stone,  divided 
the  bird  part  from  part.  The  hungry  family  ate,  tearing 
tissue  and  sinew  with  sharp  teeth,  sucking  the  juices. 
Even  the  littlest  one  was  given  a  bone  to  do  what  it 
might  with.  At  last  they  had  dined,  and  there  was  little 
of  the  bird  that  was  left.  They  gnawed  the  great  bones 
clean.  Only  the  feathers  blew  about  in  the  night  air  as 
the  flame  blew,  and  the  smoke  flattened  itself  against 
cavern  roof  and  wall. 

For  all  the  gaping,  black  cave  mouth,  the  inrushing 
night  air,  the  smoke  and  litter  of  the  cavern,  here  was 
cheer  within,  light,  warmth,  intimacy,  coziness,  home! 
The  littlest  one  lay  and  laughed  and  crowed.  The  next 
to  the  littlest  got  up  and  leaped  about  with  the  leaping 
shadows.  The  two  biggest  gathered  together  the  beauti 
ful  feathers  that  had  clothed  the  dinner.  They  did  not 
know  what  they  should  do  with  them,  but  they  were 
treasures  none  the  less.  The  provider,  the  cave-user,  the 
home-maker,  stretched  herself  by  the  fire.  Rest  was  earned, 
good  rest,  and  presently  sleep!  She  lay  relaxed,  and  in 
her  attitude,  her  crossed  legs  and  outflung  arms,  was 
something  of  the  grace  of  a  great  cat  of  the  forest.  The 


THE   CAVE  21 

firelight  reddened  all  the  cave  save  that  oblong,  ragged, 
black  aperture  where  was  passage  in  and  out.  Here  the 
black  night  showed  and  here  swirled  the  wind.  "Ow! 
Ow!"  laughed  and  mowed  and  clamoured  to  itself  the 
child  who  danced  with  the  shadows. 

The  provider  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  then  sat 
upright.  A  far,  thin  noise  had  caught  her  ear.  With  a 
gesture  of  her  clenched  hand  she  brought  to  an  end  the 
sound  that  the  child  was  making.  Now  was  only  the 
crackle  of  the  fire  and  the  strong  whisper  of  the  wind.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  wind  that  brought  again  the  other  sound.  The 
provider  heard  it,  thin  and  far  yet,  but  growing  articu 
late.  At  a  bound  she  was  upon  her  feet. 

Body  slanted  forward,  hands  behind  her  ears,  she  stood 
in  the  cave  mouth,  hearkening.  She  left  the  cave,  passed 
between  the  covering  rock  and  twisted  tree,  and  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  runway  up  which  at  sunset  she  had  toiled, 
the  great  bird  upon  her  back.  The  night  was  black  and 
starry.  The  wind  brought  again  the  noise.  Now  it  was 
fully  articulate.  At  this  point  in  her  history  she  had  not 
formally  named,  perhaps,  those  enemies  that  she  heard. 
But  for  all  that,  she  knew  well  enough  who  they  were. 
They  were  wolves. 

Back  in  the  cave  the  lawgiver  obtained  silence  from 
her  brood.  She  regarded  the  heap  of  firewood,  then, 
working  with  dispatch,  dragged  dead  boughs  and  rotting 
bark  toward  the  cave  mouth.  The  two  more  able  of  her 
young  helped.  All  heard  the  sound  now,  and  there  was 
grey  fear  in  the  cave.  From  wall  to  wall  they  laid  a  line 
of  fuel.  Behind  it,  the  cavern  was  spacious  enough;  there 
were  loose  stones  of  a  size  for  casting,  and  these  were 
brought  together  in  a  heap.  There  was  the  club,  and  there 


22  THE   WANDERERS 

was  the  sharpened  flake  of  stone  that  made  a  fair  knife. 
And  there  were  the  provider's  own  strength  and  instinct. 
FIGHT  FOR  YOUR  YOUNG!  Lives  for  number  like  the  leaves 
of  the  wood  had  woven  firmly  that  pattern  and  dyed  it 
to  stay. 

She  stood  between  the  unkindled  wood  and  the  black 
night  and  listened  to  the  sound,  whether  it  swelled  or 
sank.  The  children  cowered  together  by  the  cave  hearth. 
Perhaps  the  pack  would  go  by  —  perhaps  it  did  not 
savour  the  blood  dropped  from  the  bird. 

That  proved  to  be  a  vain  hope.  Length  by  length  the 
baying  came  loud  and  near.  She  heard  the  assembly  at 
the  foot  of  the  runway,  and  the  stealthy,  crowding  push 
upon  the  stones.  .  .  .  The  provider  became  the  defender. 

A  brand  from  the  hearth  fired  the  guardian  line.  The 
flame  ran  like  a  serpent  from  point  to  point.  The  leader 
of  the  pack,  appearing  between  the  cone-shaped  stone 
and  the  twisted  tree,  was  met  by  what  he  hated  and  did 
not  understand,  by  what  was  ever  too  strong  for  wolves. 
He  snapped  and  sprang,  but  the  fire  cast  him  back. 

The  wolves  crowded  the  top  of  the  runway,  they  jos 
tled  one  another  before  the  cave  mouth.  In  the  out-shot, 
quivering,  murky  light  their  movement  was  one  to  dizzy 
the  eye.  They  padded  to  right  and  left,  investigating  the 
base  of  the  cliff;  they  leaped  at  its  face,  found  footing  in 
root  or  fissure,  wreathed  the  orifice  whence  poured  the 
red  light  behind  which  was  prey.  The  light  upon  their 
yellow-grey  bodies,  moving,  twining,  leaping,  gave  them, 
too,  a  semblance  as  of  fire.  They  made  a  violent 
noise,  violent  and  dogged.  The  wolf-world  was  hungry. 
Fire  —  they  hated  fire,  screening  their  prey!  But  fire 
might  die  —  wolves  had  that  wisdom.  Wait,  and  watch 


THE   CAVE  23 

chances  1  They  waited,  leaping  like  dun  waves,  like  solid, 
forky  flames,  and  always  their  yelling  made  a  whirlpool 
in  the  else  silent  night. 

Fire  might  die  —  the  defender,  too,  knew  that!  She 
looked  down  upon  the  dwindling  heap  of  firewood,  and 
upon  the  children  who  clutched  her  by  the  knees.  Then 
she  thrust  them  away,  selected  a  fagot  and  mended 
a  place  that  was  thin.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
done  all  this  before,  and  that  living  had  in  it  much  of 
agony. 

Fire  leaped  and  played  and  sang.  Rose  and  yellow  and 
blue,  its  forky  shapes  held  the  cave,  a  zone  of  magic  be 
tween  wolf  and  savage,  brute  and  human.  Fire  blos 
somed  and  bloomed  from  all  that  was  given  it,  bough  and 
branch  and  log.  It  played  merrily,  it  sang  clearly;  with 
a  thousand  well-shaped  weapons  it  said  No!  to  the  fam 
ished  pack.  But  when  less  was  given  it,  and  less  and  less, 
its  blossoms  withered  and  its  weapons  were  lowered.  The 
defender  nursed  her  resources,  but  it  grew  that  the  line 
of  fire  was  narrower.  A  wolf,  huge  and  lean,  made  a 
bound  and  well-nigh  cleared  it.  Well-nigh,  but  not  quite ! 
Singed  and  howling,  he  made  back  to  his  fellows.  The 
defender  hurled  stones  after.  Her  arm  was  not  a  weak 
ling's  arm.  The  stones  fell  with  bruising  weight,  and  with 
the  weight,  to  the  wolves,  of  supernatural  powers.  More 
over,  she  fed  to  the  fire  a  prized  and  until  now  withheld 
great  knot  of  pine,  dragged  to  the  cave  from  a  lightning- 
riven  tree.  Up  roared  the  fire,  with  strong,  new  weapons. 
The  pack,  howling,  momentarily  daunted,  dragged  back 
from  the  cave  mouth.  She  heard  the  stones  of  the  run 
way  give  beneath  the  outward-pushing  feet,  go  rolling 
down  the  slope.  For  one  suffocating  instant  of  hope  doom 


24  THE   WANDERERS 

was  seen  as  a  figure  in  retreat  .  .  .  then  doom  stood  its 
ground,  then  doom  waited  still,  before  the  cave  mouth. 

The  points  of  flame  sank,  the  fat  pine  burned  away. 
The  defender  took  her  club;  the  lawgiver  commanded  the 
children  into  the  bottom,  low  and  dark,  of  the  cavern;  the 
provider  could  provide  no  further.  The  mother  did  not 
reason  about  it,  but  there  would  be  fight  in  the  cave  until 
all  was  done.  She  took  the  stone  knife  between  her  teeth. 
Her  teeth  were  strong  and  white;  her  eyes  held  a  red 
gleam,  her  dark  red  hair  seemed  to  bristle  upon  her  head. 
...  A  wolf  leaped  again,  coming  over  the  dying  fire- 
weapons.  She  swung  the  great  club  —  the  skull  cracked 
beneath  it  —  the  wolf  fell  down  and  moved  no  more. 
Again  a  respite,  then  two  came.  The  club  rose,  descended  — 
rose,  descended.  She  drove  the  stone  knife  in  through  the 
eyes  of  the  one  who  came  closest,  teeth  seizing  the  skin 
with  which  she  was  girt.  Her  victims  lay  before  her,  but 
she  was  one  and  the  pack  were  fifty.  Fearful  noise,  wav 
ering  light,  blind,  swift,  unreckoning  action,  and  some 
knowledge  that  presently  would  come,  blood-red  and  ter 
rific,  the  end  of  the  world.  .  .  . 

Without  the  cavern,  the  face  of  the  cliff  in  which  it  was 
hollowed  ran  brokenly  up  to  a  wild  and  broken  hill-brow. 
Here  this  crest  retreated,  and  here  it  overhung.  Ice  had 
passed  over  it,  and  there  had  been  left  huge  boulders.  Now 
one  of  these,  balanced  to  a  hair,  resting  on  the  cliff  edge, 
was  pushed  from  its  place  and  started  upon  a  journey. 
With  a  grinding  and  a  shouting  noise,  with  a  belting  cloud 
of  earth  and  rock  particles,  with  huge  weight  and  momen 
tum  it  came  down  among,  it  came  down  upon,  the  wolves. 
It  slew  and  maimed,  catching  and  pinning  wolves  beneath 
it;  it  almost  spanned  the  top  of  the  runway;  it  made  a 


THE   CAVE  25 

terror  as  of  thunderbolts;  it  thrust  down  the  slope;  it 
scattered  and  spilled  the  hunting  pack!  With  long-drawn 
yelling  the  units  fled.  Elsewhere  might  be  release  from 
hunger.  Here  was  blank  enmity  and  power,  and  stay 
ing  further  was  no  good.  Pattering  and  pushing,  they 
passed  down  the  stony  slope,  into  the  thick  forest.  Their 
long-drawn  crying  died  away.  Another  part  of  the  world 
for  them,  and  other  prey! 

The  hunter  who  had  prized  the  boulder  over  the  cliff 
was  pleased  with  the  thundering  commotion  he  had  made, 
and  with  the  success  of  the  raid.  Now  he  climbed  down 
the  face  of  the  cliff  to  the  long  shelter  line  formed  by  the 
jutting  rock.  Here  was  the  boulder  he  had  toppled  over! 
He  patted  it  with  his  hand  and  he  kicked  with  his  foot 
the  body  of  a  wolf  that  projected  from  beneath.  The 
night  had  but  a  late-risen  waning  moon,  but  so  clear 
was  the  air,  and  so  good  was  the  eyesight  of  hunters 
accustomed  by  day  and  by  night  to  the  roof  of  the  sky, 
that  the  man  saw  as  though  he  had  been  cat  or  owl. 
He  gazed  down  the  runway  and  recognized  the  out 
stretched  finger  of  wood  where,  two  suns  ago,  he  had 
paused  and  looked  this  way,  and  then  had  followed  the 
doe  and  fawn.  He  had  slain  both  and  eaten  his  fill.  He 
carried  now,  wrapped  in  fawn  skin,  strips  of  meat.  He 
also  had  a  knife  of  flaked  stone.  After  that  chase  and 
after  a  gorging  feast  and  sleep  in  a  hole  that  he  had  found 
in  this  same  long-continuing  fastness  line  of  rock  and  hill, 
he  had  remembered  the  children  he  had  seen  before  the  doe 
went  by.  .  .  .  These  were  fresh  hunting-fields  to  him.  He 
knew  better  the  lower  ground,  near  the  quarter  where  the 
sun  rose,  where  pushed  a  turbid,  great  river.  But  to  eat 
in  these  days,  one  must  wander  afar!  For  a  long  while 


26  THE   WANDERERS 

he  had  seen  few  beings  of  his  own  kind.  This  cave  region 
was  new  to  him.  He  knew  little  of  caves,  and  though  he 
made  a  lair  where  it  was  convenient  to  do  so,  and  though, 
through  considerable  periods  of  time,  he  might  return  to 
it  at  night,  he  had  not  acquired  the  habit  of  a  fixed  abode. 
The  male  of  his  kind  was  restless  and  a  wanderer. 

The  boulder  which  he  had  thrown  down  almost  hid  the 
cave  mouth.  But  now  from  one  side  stole  forth  a  diffused 
red  light.  Smoke,  too,  was  in  his  nostrils.  Grasping  his 
club  more  closely,  he  rounded  the  corner  of  the  stone  and 
having  done  so  was  fairly  in  the  cave.  He  discovered 
there  what  he  may  be  said  to  have  expected  to  discover  — 
a  woman  and  her  children.  It  was  the  female  of  his  kind 
that  found  or  made  substantial  lairs. 

The  defender  had  put  upon  the  fire  the  last  scrapings  of 
her  heap  of  wood.  Rose  and  gold  and  violet,  the  flames 
lit  the  cavern.  They  showed  her,  still  with  her  club  and 
knife,  and  her  young  ones  by  the  wall,  and  the  heap  of 
skins,  and  the  stone  hearth.  It  was  cold  without,  it  was 
warm  within;  dark  without,  light  within.  He  had  never 
seen  so  noble  a  lair!  He  spoke  —  chiefly  by  gestures,  but 
also  with  words.  She  answered  with  gestures  and  words. 
"I  threw  the  boulder  down,"  he  said.  "Wolves  dead!" 

He  gazed  around  the  place  that  was  warm  and  dry  and 
pleasant.  He  gazed  at  the  woman.  She  stood  upon  the 
younger  side  of  prime,  as  did  he.  He  dropped  his  club; 
he  came  across,  and  with  a  smoothing  motion  ran  his  hand 
along  her  arm.  She  made  no  objection  to  that;  she  looked 
at  him  with  eyes  out  of  which  had  died  the  red  rage.  .  .  . 

Dawn  broke  and  lit  the  world  in  front  of  the  tiers  of 
rock.  Those  within  the  cavern  stirred  from  sleep.  The 
man  and  the  woman  went  forth  together,  found  dead 


THE   CAVE  27 

wood  and  brought  it  in  under  the  rock.  Embers  were  left 
beneath  the  ashes.  They  made  up  the  fire  and  they  broiled 
the  strips  of  meat  that  the  man  had  wrapped  in  the  fawn 
skin.  Woman  and  children  and  man  had  breakfast. 

That  over,  the  two  went  out  and  looked  at  the  boulder, 
and  by  dint  of  the  strength  of  both  dragged  and  pried 
from  under  it  the  slain  wolves.  Scavenger  birds  were  cir 
cling  overhead,  or  watching  from  tree-tops.  .  .  .  That 
morning  they  worked  hard,  stripping  with  flake  knives 
the  skins  from  the  wolves.  They  cut  meat  in  thin  pieces 
and  hung  these  in  sun  and  wind  over  a  horizontal  pole 
set  between  two  vertical  ones.  The  elder  children  watched, 
frightening  the  birds  with  cries  and  flung  stones.  Finally, 
the  man  and  woman  bore  the  carcasses  some  distance  from 
the  cave  and  dropped  them  over  a  precipitous  place  into 
the  wood  below.  Now  let  the  birds  strip  the  bones! 

The  man  and  the  woman  waited  to  see  them  come  sail 
ing,  then  they  turned  back  to  the  cavern.  As  they  went 
they  talked  amicably  together.  The  man  pointed  out, 
over  the  forest-top,  the  quarter  whence  he  had  come.  He 
said  the  word  of  this  part  of  the  world  for  "river,"  and 
spread  his  arms  to  show  that  it  was  a  great  river,  flowing 
through  low  country.  He  did  not  well  know  cave  coun 
tries;  he  showed  that  by  the  way  he  looked  at  the  rocks. 

They  lived  and  feasted,  slept  and  were  warm  three  days 
in  the  cavern  at  the  top  of  the  runway.  Then  it  became 
necessary  again  to  get  food.  The  provider  and  her  guest 
hunted  long  hours,  and  came  to  the  cave  at  dusk,  carry 
ing  a  beaver  that  they  had  trapped.  Again  the  cavern 
knew  food  and  contentment.  They  ate,  and  then  they 
slept,  with  the  red  eye  of  the  fire  never  quite  closing 
through  the  night.  The  next  day  there  was  still  food. 


28  THE   WANDERERS 

The  provider  lay  by  the  fire  in  her  cave  and  looked  at 
the  man.  He  sat  in  the  entrance  so  that  he  could  get  the 
light,  and  with  a  stone  in  one  hand  and  a  piece  of  flint  in 
the  other,  he  was  striking  such  pieces  from  the  latter  as 
would  leave  it  edged  and  pointed.  He  was  a  strong  man. 
More  than  that,  he  had  a  rudimentary  good  temper, 
though  on  occasions  he  could  also  show  himself  violent, 
crafty,  and  selfish.  The  provider  possessed  like  qualities. 

The  two  older  children  came  from  a  trickling  spring 
three  stone-throws  away.  The  lawgiver  let  them  go  that 
far  from  the  cave.  When  food  grew  easier  to  get,  and  all 
the  world  of  tooth  and  claw  less  keenly  dangerous,  she 
would  take  them,  grown  older  and  bigger,  with  her  when 
she  hunted  —  give  them  training,  looking  to  their  hunting 
in  their  turn.  The  two,  pausing  beside  the  man,  watched 
him  use  flint  and  hand-stone.  He  was  not  fierce  with  the 
children;  he  laughed  and  spoke  in  a  friendly  voice. 

The  provider's  experience  had  been  with  fiercer  men, 
who  struck  aside  the  children.  The  last  one  had  done  so, 
indeed,  had  well-nigh  killed  the  child  that  was  then  the 
littlest.  He  had  lived  in  the  cave  three  days,  and  then  had 
burst  away,  following  a  hunting  woman  who  had  chanced 
to  pass  that  way.  The  provider  had  been  glad  when  he 
was  gone.  That  was  a  long  while  ago  —  a  good  long  time, 
many  moons  before  the  littlest  one  came.  .  .  . 

She  could  not  well  remember  how  that  man  had  looked 
—  but  he  had  not  been  like  this  one.  This  one  seemed  like 
one  who  had  been  here  before,  and  that  for  a  long  time. 
Yet  that  was  not  true,  and  no  one  stayed  for  a  long  time. 
In  her  world,  as  she  knew  it,  men  made  a  roving  folk.  This 
cave,  that  lair  of  brush  and  stretched  skins,  received  them 
for  a  time  —  short  time.  Then  they  went,  quitting  women 


THE  CAVE  29 

and  the  young  of  women  that,  together,  made  the  only 
stable  society. 

The  provider  looked  around  her  cavern.  She  thought 
of  the  wolves,  then,  with  a  backward  stretch  of  her  mind, 
of  the  bear  she  had  fought  and  taken  this  cavern  from. 
In  between  the  two  points  of  time  she  had  fought  many 
beasts.  She  had  hunted  in  fair  weather  and  foul.  At  times, 
being  afar,  she  had  doubted  ever  seeing  again  the  cavern 
and  her  young.  And  she  had  held  the  cavern,  as  the  other 
night,  from  attackers.  .  .  .  She  gazed  deeply  upon  the 
man  sitting  in  the  cave  entrance.  .  .  .  Children,  and  feed 
ing  them,  and  keeping  them  fast  from  being  slain.  Chil 
dren,  and  finding  them  food,  and  thrusting  away  their 
foes.  Her  own  food,  too,  and  her  own  foes.  She  thought 
again  of  the  wolves,  and  of  how  he  had  thrown  down  the 
boulder,  and  of  how  much  easier  the  hunting  was  with 
two  than  alone.  Within  her  breast  was  born  a  warm, 
an  aching  desire  for  companionship.  She  thought,  "If  he 
would  stay  —  not  being  fierce." 

She  looked  at  the  fire;  then,  raising  herself  upon  her 
arm,  laid  sticks  upon  it  so  that  the  cave  should  still  glow. 
She  did  this  without  reasoning,  but  when  it  was  done  she 
looked  from  the  mended  flame  to  the  man  who  had  been 
here  now  four  days.  He  sat  in  the  cave  entrance  and 
chipped  and  chipped  at  his  flint  knife.  As  he  worked  he 
made  a  humming  sound  to  himself.  .  .  .  You  could  pen  a 
child  within  the  cave  and  keep  it  there,  but  you  could  not 
pen  a  man.  To  have  him  stay  he  must  want  to  stay.  .  .  . 
Her  own  desire  that  he  should  stay  grew  wider  and 
deeper. 

The  provider  raised  herself  and  went  and  sat  down  also 
in  the  entrance.  She  looked  at  his  work,  and  again 


30  THE   WANDERERS 

without  reasoning  she  admired  it  aloud.  "Good  knife!" 
she  said.  "Plenty  flint  here!  " 

He  nodded  his  head  and  went  on  working  and  humming. 
Presently,  one  side  being  chipped  sufficiently,  he  turned 
the  knife  in  his  hand,  rested,  and  looked  out  of  the  cave 
mouth.  The  leaves  of  the  forest  below  were  growing  brown, 
were  dropping  upon  the  chill  earth.  He  looked  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  fire  in  the  rock  chamber  and  the  pile  of 
skins.  "Good  warm  here!"  he  said. 

She  nodded,  then  waved  her  hand  toward  the  world 
beneath.  "Soon  all  cold.  But  warm  here.  Good  here." 
She  turned  her  body  toward  the  cave.  "Children  good!" 

He  looked  doubtfully  at  that,  but  just  then  the  littlest 
crowed,  and  the  next  to  the  littlest  laughed,  and  the  eldest 
put  a  stick  upon  the  fire  and  set  up  a  warmer  light.  A 
thing  happened.  The  man's  look  softened  and  mellowed. 
He  felt  within  something  that  he  had  never  felt  before. 
He  grunted,  took  up  the  knife  again  and  chipped  with 
vigour.  The  woman  said  nothing  for  a  time,  then  she 
spoke  somewhat  dreamily.  "One  hunt  alone  —  get  tired. 
Two  hunt  together,  good  —  good.  .  .  .  Two  stay  together 
—  two  and  children."  She  moved  nearer  to  him.  "Good?" 
she  repeated  on  an  at  once  insisting  and  questioning  note. 

The  man  sharpened  and  sharpened  the  flint  knife.  Men 
tal  processes  were  as  yet  somewhat  snail-like  and  it  took 
time  to  measure  a  large,  new  proposition.  He  looked  at 
the  woman,  and  back  into  the  cave  and  down  over  the 
turning  forest,  and  then  at  the  woman  again.  Again  his 
face  broke  slowly  into  that  dusky,  promising  warmth. 
"Pretty  good,"  he  said,  and  began  to  fashion  from  a  bit 
of  wood  a  handle  for  his  knife. 


CHAPTER  III 

BIG    TROUBLE 

RUDELY  constructed,  shed-like,  or  nondescript,  the  long 
communal  houses  lay  like  dark  beads  in  a  landscape  of 
green,  in  a  warm,  temperate  clime.  In  front  stretched  a 
fen,  and  beyond  the  fen  flowed  a  river.  To  right  and  left 
and  in  the  background  waked  and  slumbered  the  forest, 
chief  possessor  yet  of  the  earth.  Before  the  houses  that 
were  large  enough  and  long  enough  to  lodge,  when  they 
chose  to  stay  indoors,  several  hundred  women,  men,  and 
children,  ran  a  strip  of  naked,  sun-baked  earth.  Here  the 
children  played,  and  here  went  on  industrial  processes, 
and  here  were  held,  beneath  one  huge  tree,  the  general 
councils,  pow-wows,  folk-meets. 

The  people  of  the  long  houses  ate  fish  which  they  caught 
by  means  of  weirs  and  with  harpoons  and  hooks  fashioned 
from  bone.  They  ate  in  their  season  fruits  and  nuts,  and 
they  were  acquainted  with  certain  mealy  roots  and  seeds 
of  grasses.  They  ate  those  animal  denizens  of  forest  or 
plain  that  they  could  kill  with  club  and  spear  or  take  in 
pit  and  snare.  In  times  of  scarcity  they  ate  flesh  food  of 
a  low  order.  In  times  of  huge  scarcity,  when  it  was  that 
or  the  wasting  away  of  the  group  and  its  passage  into  the 
land  of  death,  they  might  slay  and  eat  the  aged  of  their 
own  kind. 

In  the  matter  of  weapons  the  people  of  the  long  houses 
yet  depended  upon  the  spear,  but  were  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  bow  and  arrow.  In  the  heat  of  summer  they  wore 


32  THE   WANDERERS 

brief  garments  of  woven  grass;  in  the  colder  weather  they 
garbed  themselves  in  skins  sewed  with  a  bone  needle  and 
a  fibre  thread.  Year  by  year,  life  by  life,  they  were  mould 
ing  a  flexible,  strong,  not  unmusical  language.  They  could 
count  beyond  ten.  Simple  calculations  were  coming  into 
the  scope  of  most.  Here  and  there  finer  brains  undertook 
calculations  not  quite  so  simple.  They  used  a  ceremonial 
burial  of  the  dead,  and  they  placed  beside  the  body  weap 
ons  and  other  objects  which  might  be  useful  in  some  vague 
other  world.  They  observed  the  moon  and  the  larger 
stars,  and  to  every  single  thing  under  heaven  they  attrib 
uted  a  will  to  save  or  to  damn.  They  had  a  body  of  cus 
toms,  not  yet  stiffened  into  law.  Women,  the  makers  and 
possessors  of  children,  the  original  devisers  of  houses  and 
clothes  and  such  things,  the  earliest  lawgivers  and  gather 
ers  of  people  into  societies,  were  yet,  through  the  greater 
range  of  matters,  the  authoritative  sex.  They  were  the 
mothers,  the  instinctively  turned  to  even  after  childhood, 
the  dimly  deified.  But  men  were  powerful  encroachers, 
and  they  encroached. 

To  the  two  alike  had  once  fallen  the  fierce,  the  inces 
sant  warfare  against  their  old  kindred  the  beasts.  Now, 
the  women  abetting,  the  men  had  almost  taken  over  that 
department  of  living.  Men  were  the  manufacturers  of 
spear  and  spearhead,  the  experimenters  with  stone  axe  and 
stone  knife.  They  were  the  steady  feelers  toward  bow  and 
arrow,  the  chief  hunters  now  of  dangerous  beasts,  strength 
ening  in  muscle,  gaining  in  height,  careless  of  inflicted 
pain,  watchers  of  flowing  blood,  quarrellers  with  chance- 
met  other  hunting  bands  from  other  long  houses,  ad 
venturous,  bold,  standing  by  wide  rivers,  meditating  a 
raft,  a  boat,  or  from  hill-tops  watching  the  climbing  stars, 


BIG   TROUBLE  33 

roaming  afar  from  the  houses  and  returning.  Wilder  than 
his  mate  was  the  male  and  more  violent,  as  became  one 
who  had  nothing  to  do  with  children.  Nor  he,  nor  she,  be 
lieved  that  he  had  anything  to  do  with  children  —  nor 
with  the  making  of  them,  nor  with  the  owning  them  after 
they  were  made. 

A  cluster  of  women  came  down  to  the  bank  of  one  of  the 
ribbon-like  water-courses  winding  through  the  fen.  Here 
was  a  bed  of  clay.  The  women  carried  a  number  of  uncer 
tainly  shaped  vessels  of  plaited  rush  and  osier.  These 
they  laid  upon  the  earth,  and  sitting  down  by  the  stream, 
fell  to  dashing  water  over  the  clay,  and,  when  the  latter 
was  sufficiently  softened,  to  gathering  it  up  and  kneading 
it  with  the  hands.  When  the  mass  was  very  smooth  and 
plastic,  each  woman  took  one  of  the  osier  shapes,  set  it  be 
tween  her  knees,  and  began  to  daub  it  within  and  without 
with  clay.  They  wet  their  hands  and  worked  with  palm 
and  fingers  and  thumb,  and  also  with  a  spatula-like  piece 
of  wood,  bringing  the  clay  into  one  surface,  smoothing  and 
finishing  it  off.  When  bowl  and  jar  were  dried  in  the  sun, 
then  water  might  be  carried  without  grave  loss  and  meat 
might  be  cooked  without  the  osiers  burning  in  the  fire. 
An  idea  came  to  one  of  the  women.  She  took  a  mound  of 
wet  clay  and  with  her  hands  and  the  spatula  she  worked 
until  she  had  a  bowl  of  the  clay  itself  without  any  osier 
inner  walls.  "Ha!"  she  cried.  "Look!"  Setting  the  bowl 
aside  in  the  sun,  she  took  more  clay  and  made  a  jar-like 
shape.  The  other  women  suspended  work  to  watch  her. 
They  leaned  forward,  interest  in  their  eyes.  An  old  woman, 
sitting  by,  watching  not  working,  —  old  Aneka  the  Wise 
Woman,  —  made  a  sound  of  approval.  "Good!"  said 
Aneka.  "It  is  good  to  think  and  to  put  one  thing  and 


34  THE  WANDERERS 

another  thing  together!    Now  you  can  make  pots  without 
braiding  reeds." 

Back  on  the  sun-hardened  strip  before  the  houses  a  fire 
was  burning.  At  a  fair  distance  from  this  rose  a  young 
tree  and  to  the  tree  was  tied  a  creature  with  his  wolf  de 
scent  written  plain.  A  woman  came  from  the  nearest 
house,  in  her  hands  a  piece  of  raw  meat.  When  the  wild 
dog  saw  the  meat  he  made  a  bound  and  strained  fiercely 
at  the  thongs  which  held  him.  The  woman  laid  the  meat 
upon  the  ground,  not  far  from  the  fire.  Then  she  took  a 
billet  of  wood  and,  passing  before  the  tied  creature,  showed 
it  to  him  not  once  but  many  times.  This  done,  she  placed 
the  piece  of  wood  upon  the  ground  as  far  from  him  in  the 
one  direction  as  was  the  piece  of  meat  in  the  other.  Next 
in  order,  she  took  a  long,  stout  stick,  seasoned  and  sharp 
ened,  and  striking  one  end  into  the  embers,  watched  it 
until  it  was  aflame.  All  this  time  the  half-dog,  half-wolf, 
was  making  a  noise.  Woman,  dog,  meat,  stick,  and  fire 
had  for  observers  a  number  of  naked  children.  Now  she 
turned  upon  these  and  ordered  them  within  the  house, 
and  when  they  protested  and  went  reluctantly,  she  threat 
ened  them  with  voice  and  stick.  The  ground  clear,  the 
woman,  the  burning  stick  in  her  hand,  went  and  untied  the 
creature  to  be  tamed.  He  sprang  at  her,  but  she  lunged 
as  fiercely  with  the  brand,  and  he  gave  back  and  cowered. 
She  spoke  in  a  voice  of  command,  pointed  out  the  billet 
of  wood,  and  spoke  again.  The  creature  gathered  himself 
together  and  made  a  leap  —  toward  the  piece  of  meat. 
She  was  there  before  him,  squarely  between  him  and  it, 
the  burning  wood  sending  forth  sparks.  Again  he  gave 
back  and  hung  uncertain,  growling  deeply.  She  gestured 
for  the  twentieth  time  toward  the  bit  of  wood.  "Bring 


BIG   TROUBLE  35 

me  that!  Then  you  shall  eat."  He  would  have  liked  to 
tear  her  into  pieces,  but  after  many  minutes  of  this  work, 
—  rushes  toward  the  meat,  beatings-back  with  stick  and 
voice  and  eye,  —  he  brought  her  the  billet  of  wood. 
"Good!  Now,  go  eat!" 

East  of  the  long  houses  spread  a  space  of  earth  firmer 
than  the  neighbouring  fen,  more  open  than  the  neighbour 
ing  forest.  Three  women  were  here.  They  had  wooden 
staves,  and  at  the  end  of  each  was  bound  at  right  angles  a 
large,  rudely  sharpened  flint.  With  these  the  women  were 
loosening  the  fat,  black  earth.  Beside  them  lay  a  heap  of 
roots  and  plants  taken  from  the  forest. 

Beneath  a  tree  sat  a  lean  man  watching.  In  weather 
such  as  this,  and  with  no  ceremonial  toward,  the  men  of 
the  long  houses  went  all  but  nude.  But  the  lean  man 
dressed  every  day,  and  that  with  punctiliousness  and 
ornamentation.  He  had  this  morning,  beside  other  ap 
parel,  a  string  of  small,  dried  gourds  passing  over  one 
shoulder  and  under  the  other.  They  rattled  when  he 
moved. 

"Ha!"  chanted  the  hoeing  women  — • 

"We  are  going  to  see 
That  which  we  shall  see! 
We  are  going  to  put 
Yuba  in  the  earth! 
If  she  rots  there,  bad! 
If  she  grows  there,  good! 
Yuba!  grow  big! 
Yuba!  make  children! 
Then  shall  we  eat 
Without  going  to  seek. 
Then  shall  we  have 
Yuba  to  our  hand! 
Yuba  and  her  children, 


36  THE   WANDERERS 

Sweet  to  the  tooth ! 
Then  none  will  hunger, 
Though  the  fish  go  away! 
Then  none  will  hunger, 
Though  the  men  kill  no  meat! 
Then  those  who  laugh, 
Saying,  'What  do  you  do, 
Scratching  there  in  the  earth?' 
They  will  come  to  us  begging. 
They  will  cry,  'Give  us  Yuba!' '' 

The  man  with  the  gourds  chose  the  attitude  of  con 
tempt  before  an  infant  industry.  He  spoke  in  a  guttural 
voice.  "You  are  like  fish  and  have  no  sense!  I  go  into  the 
forest  and  when  I  am  hungry,  I  look  around  me,  and  I  sing, 
'Yuba!  Yuba!'  'Here  I  am!'  says  Yuba  plant.  'Dig  me 
up!'  —  But  you  say,  'Let  us  tie  Yuba  to  the  houses!' 
He  shook  the  gourds.  "You  are  more  foolish  than  the 
fish.  They  do  not  go  about  to  make  the  river  angry.  But 
you  go  about  to  make  Yuba  angry!" 

The  women  leaned  upon  their  hoes  and  regarded  with 
apprehension  the  heap  of  Yuba  roots.  The  sun  lay  golden 
all  around.  "She  does  not  look  angry!  We  think  she  likes 
to  come  near  the  houses." 

But  the  man  with  the  gourds  remained  indignant.  "Ha! 
No,  she  does  not!  All  kinds  of  things  are  coming  to  be 
angry  with  you  women!"  He  shook  the  rattling  string. 
"What  will  you  give  me  if  I  go  to  the  forest  and  sing 
and  dance  for  you  before  Yuba  ? " 

"We  are  going  to  dance  before  her  here,"  said  the  farm 
ers.  "We  are  going  to  make  a  great  Yuba  dance!  —  Why 
don't  you  go  hunting?  All  the  men  are  hunting." 

The  sitter  under  the  tree  shook  from  a  gourd  a  number 
of  long  and  sharp  thorns.  "Yes,  they  are  hunting!  They 


BIG   TROUBLE  37 

are  hunting  Big  Trouble.  But  I,  too,  hunt  Big  Trouble,  and 
I  hunt  better  than  they."  He  spoke  with  growing  unction. 
"Yesterday  I  went  into  the  forest.  I  did  not  go  with 
others  —  I  went  by  myself.  I  found  Big  Trouble's  foot 
prints.  I  found  where  he  had  broken  the  canes  and  laid 
down.  I  stuck  long  thorns  in  his  footprints."  He  talked 
with  gestures  no  less  than  with  words.  "I  put  thorns  in 
the  earth  where  he  rolled.  So  to-day  Big  Trouble  is  going 
like  this  — "  He  got  up  and  limped  painfully  about,  then 
sat  down  and  with  his  long  nail  drew  a  mark  across  the 
ground  before  him.  "I  did  so  before  his  footprints.  Now, 
wherever  he  goes,  the  pit  is  before  him!  Now  they  will 
hunt  Big  Trouble  easily.  Now  he  will  go  straight  to  the 
pit  they  have  made  and  fall  in  it."  He  fell  himself,  dou- 
bled-up,  upon  the  ground  to  show  the  manner  of  it,  then 
retook  his  first  posture  and  shook  the  gourds.  "They 
think  they  are  hunting  Big  Trouble.  But  Haki  and  One 
Other  hunted  him  first!  Now  I  sit  still  and  wait  for  the 
men  to  come  home.  They  will  give  me  so  much  meat." 
He  measured  with  his  arms.  "I  will  burn  a  part  of  it  for 
One  Other." 

The  awe  he  meant  to  evoke  was  faintly  apparent.  The 
farmers  laughed  uneasily,  with  a  catch  of  the  breath. 
"Don't  put  thorns  in  our  footprints!"  said  one;  and  an 
other,  "Rub  out  the  pit  you've  made  before  us  there!" 
He  smeared  it  over  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  then  shook 
the  gourds  and  looked  sidelong  and  slily  at  the  working 
women.  "Will  you  give  me  Yuba  if  she  stays  here  and 
grows  for  you  ? " 

"Oh,  we'll  give  you  plenty!"  answered  the  farmers. 
They  laughed  as  they  said  it,  but  they  laughed  uneasily. 
However,  they  went  on  singing,  using  the  first  hoes. 


3  8  THE  WANDERERS 

"Then  none  will  hunger, 
Though  the  fish  go  away! 
Then  none  will  hunger, 
Though  the  men  kill  no  meat! 
Then  those  who  laugh, 
Saying,  'What  do  you  do, 
Scratching  there  in  the  earth?' 
They  will  creep  to  us  softly, 
They  will  cry,  'Give  us  Yuba!'  " 

Far  off,  in  the  deep  woods,  the  men  of  the  long  houses 
were  hunting  Big  Trouble,  hunting  him  far  and  wide.  Big 
Trouble  had  chosen  to  make  such  a  path  to  the  river  as 
brought  him  into  close  quarters  with  the  houses.  More 
over,  on  more  occasions  than  one,  he  had  strayed  aside 
from  the  path;  he  had  come  brushing  and  trampling  and 
ruining  against  the  place  itself,  all  in  the  dead  of  night, 
waking  and  terrifying!  So  now  Big  Trouble  was  to  be 
killed.  To  that  end,  for  many  days,  they  had  been  digging 
a  pit  in  the  wood,  deepening  and  widening  the  mouth  of 
a  gully  near  to  old  haunts  of  Big  Trouble.  When  it  was 
deep  enough  and  sharply  shelving  enough,  they  set  at  the 
bottom  pointed  stakes  and  then  they  covered  all  with  a 
net  of  vines,  artfully  made  to  look  like  the  very  floor  of  the 
forest;  strong  enough,  too,  not  to  give  beneath  the  weight 
of  any  slight  forest  creature.  But  let  Big  Trouble  try  it  — ! 
For  days,  also,  they  had  been  talking  and  training,  exer 
cising  their  muscles,  trying  their  spears  and  clubs,  asking 
help  of  the  Great  Turtle  who  was  mysteriously  their  es 
pecial  friend  —  the  Great  Turtle  at  the  mouth  of  the  great 
river,  who  came  from  the  water  and  laid  her  eggs  upon  the 
sand.  Now  they  were  all  in  the  deep  wood,  driving  Big 
Trouble,  disturbing  him  with  flung  club  and  spear,  getting 
him  to  go  toward  the  pit.  Big  Trouble  was  so  big,  and 


BIG   TROUBLE  39 

covered  with  such  a  fell  of  shaggy,  red-brown  hair  that  a 
flung  club  or  spear  troubled  him  little,  and  on  the  whole 
he  was  good-natured,  and  since  he  did  not  eat  flesh,  would 
not  hurt  them  in  turn  —  not  unless  they  mightily  angered 
him.  Then,  indeed,  he  would  hunt  with  a  vengeance,  fill 
ing  the  air  with  trumpetings,  tearing  down  the  forest, 
shaking  the  earth,  seizing  the  unlucky  with  his  trunk  and 
trampling  them  into  an  awful  pulp!  To  hunt  Big  Trouble 
was  to  hunt  in  peril  and  excitement  and  with  a  fearful  joy 
—  a  hunting  that  needed  beforehand  rites  and  ceremonies, 
and  when  it  was  accomplished,  rites  and  ceremonies. 

Women  as  well  as  men  hunted  Big  Trouble,  though  not 
anything  like  so  many  women  as  men.  But  when  a 
woman  wished  to  hunt,  she  hunted;  hunted  for  food  now 
as  long  since,  hunted  for  joy  in  activity,  danger,  and  ex 
citement.  It  was  a  dwindling  custom,  but  they  hunted 
yet.  Half  a  dozen  now  stalked  Big  Trouble  with  the  men 
and  threw  their  spears  against  him. 

By  the  time  the  sun  was  high,  Big  Trouble  had  rolled 
his  bulk  very  near  the  hidden  pit.  He  was  growing  angry. 
The  hunters  had  now  to  act  with  extreme  wanness.  Just 
before  he  reached  the  pit,  he  turned.  He  would  go  no 
farther.  He  stood  trumpeting  and  all  the  hunters  got 
behind  thick  trees  and  crouched  trembling.  Big  Trouble 
glared  with  his  small,  red  eyes.  Shaggy,  with  red-brown 
hair,  with  hugely  long,  curving  tusks,  vast  and  dusky,  the 
mammoth  stood  swaying  from  side  to  side,  growing  an 
grier  and  angrier,  searching  with  those  now  vicious,  deep- 
sunk,  red  eyes.  The  hunters  shrank  to  be  smaller  and 
smaller  behind  the  trees.  Their  hearts  grew  small  within 
them.  Big  Trouble  did  not  mean  to  go  on,  had  stopped 
definitely  short  of  the  snare!  He  would  stay  there  for 


40  THE   WANDERERS 

hours,  watching,  and  if  any  one  moved  he  would  make 
his  fearful,  trampling  rush.  .  .  .  Time  passed,  much  time. 
The  sun  that  had  been  up  in  the  plains  of  the  sky  began  to 
travel  down  the  sky,  down  and  down  the  sky.  Big  Trouble 
kept  as  he  was;  only  now  and  then  he  trumpeted. 

A  young  man  and  woman  left  the  screen  of  a  wide- 
girthed  tree.  They  darted  into  the  open.  Big  Trouble 
saw  them  out  of  the  red  corner  of  his  eye.  He  swung  his 
bulk  about  and,  trumpeting,  charged.  Immediately  the 
two  were  behind  a  greater  tree  than  the  first.  Big  Trouble 
passed,  trumpeting,  and  the  wind  of  him  shook  the  leaves. 
Baffled,  he  stopped  and  stood  swaying,  angrier  than  be 
fore,  angrier  every  moment.  The  two  left  the  second  tree 
and  fled  before  him.  He  followed,  darkness  and  weight 
arush  through  the  forest.  The  man  and  woman  gained 
the  third  tree.  Big  Trouble  passed,  then  he  turned.  The 
two  left  their  tree  and  raced  before  him,  racing  straight 
now  to  the  pit.  Big  Trouble  came  after  them,  and  he  shook 
the  earth  and  air.  The  two  took  life  in  their  hands,  made 
themselves  light,  bounded  upon  and  across  the  roof  of 
vine  and  leaf.  It  gave  a  little  beneath  their  feet,  but  only 
a  little.  As  near  skimming  as  might  be,  they  won  to  the 
farther  side,  and  with  a  long  cry  of  triumph  rushed  to 
shelter.  On,  after  them,  thundered  and  trumpeted  Big 
Trouble.  His  forefeet  came  down  upon  the  roof  of  the 
pit;  he  felt  it  break  beneath  him,  but  could  not  stop  him 
self.  Over  and  down  he  plunged,  down  with  a  frightful 
noise.  The  stakes  caught  him,  the  steep  sides  wedged  him 
in.  Big  Trouble  was  not  going  any  more  to  trouble  the 
long  houses. 

The  two  who  had  toled  Big  Trouble  into  the  pit  marched 
in  triumph  back  to  the  houses,  at  the  head  of  the  hunters. 


BIG   TROUBLE  41 

The  two  were  big  and  strong,  young,  and  according  to  the 
notions  of  their  people,  well-favoured.  Back  they  and  all 
the  hunters  came,  shouting  and  chanting,  through  the 
leafy  world  with  the  red  sun  sinking  behind  them,  and 
borne  along,  slung  over  a  pole,  the  seven-feet-long  curved, 
ivory  tusks  of  Big  Trouble.  Out  to  meet  them  came  the 
too  old  to  hunt  and  the  too  young,  came  the  man  with  the 
thorns  and  the  gourds,  came  the  women,  all  who  had  not 
hunted.  Singing  and  shouting,  the  two  tides  met  in  the 
red  sunset,  beneath  the  black  trees. 

"Big  Trouble  is  dead! 
He  will  plague  us  no  more!" 

The  sun  was  going  down  —  the  hunters  were  tired, 
tired!  They  ate  what  was  given  them,  fell  upon  the  earth 
and  went  to  sleep.  But  the  next  day  the  long  houses  made 
a  feast  of  commemoration  —  Big  Trouble  being  gone  for 
ever. 

Gata,  who  had  hunted  Big  Trouble  and  raced  over  the 
roof  of  his  pit,  left  the  feasting  ring  about  the  council 
tree.  The  sun  hung  low,  the  river  flowed,  a  crooked  bright 
ness.  Most  of  the  folk  of  the  long  houses  were  hoarse  with 
singing  and  shouting,  and  drowsy  with  food  and  drunk 
with  dancing  and  with  a  brew  that  they  made  out  of  for 
est  fruits.  Many  were  asleep,  others  noisy  with  no  rea 
son,  others  grunting  and  dull-eyed.  Gata  had  danced,  but 
she  had  not  eaten  and  drunken  to  disorder  and  heaviness. 
Now  she  rose  and  left  the  feast,  for  she  was  tired  of  it. 
She  expected  one  to  follow.  She  had  been  watching  Amru 
where  he  sat  under  the  tree.  Neither  had  he  eaten  and 
drunken  and  danced  to  stupidity. 

Here  and  there  in  the  fen  were  higher  places,  islands  as 


42  THE  WANDERERS 

it  were,  covered  with  a  short  grass.  She  took  a  path  that 
led  to  such  a  spot.  On  either  hand  the  reeds  stood  up,  and 
they  waved  and  sighed  in  the  evening  wind.  The  long 
houses  disappeared  from  sight.  Looking  back  she  saw 
Amru  upon  the  path. 

Here,  where  it  lifted  from  the  fen,  the  earth  rested  warm. 
The  sun  moved  red  through  a  zone  of  mist.  The  tall  reeds 
made  a  wall  for  the  grassy  island.  Gata  and  Amru  sat 
facing  each  other  on  the  round  earth,  round  like  a  shield, 
above  the  fen.  A  last  ray  from  the  sun  brightened  Gata's 
hair  that  was  darkly  red.  With  the  flat  fen  about  them, 
and  behind  the  low  forest,  they  looked  larger  than  life. 
They  leaned  toward  each  other,  they  pressed  their  hands 
together,  their  bodies  together.  Lifted  by  the  lifting  earth, 
they  looked  one  piece. 

The  sun  touched  the  rim  of  earth  and  coloured  the  river 
through  the  fen.  Gata  and  Amru  lay  embraced. 

Almost  as  soon  as  the  sun  sank,  the  moon  rose.  It 
came  up  round  and  golden  —  only  the  people  of  the  long 
houses  did  not  know  gold.  Still  the  folk  slept,  tumbled 
like  acorns  beneath  the  council  tree.  A  few  old  people  did 
not  sleep,  but  sat  nodding,  nodding,  and  women  who  had 
young  children  did  not  sleep.  But  all  the  strong  men  slept, 
some  lying  like  fallen  trees,  and  others  snoring  and  grunt 
ing.  The  man  with  the  gourds,  who  had  watched  the  farm 
ers,  did  not  sleep.  He  had  a  mind  and  a  conscience  that 
often  kept  him  awake.  Now,  as  the  moon  came  up,  he 
wandered  forth  from  the  littered  strip  before  the  houses. 
"One  Other"  often  commanded  his  presence  by  night. 
Now  he  walked  by  the  fen  and  regarded  the  moon.  The 
night  was  hot,  but  the  lean  man  felt  a  wildness  and  exal 
tation  that  kept  him  above  the  heat.  He  wore  skirt  and 


BIG  TROUBLE  43 

baldric  and  headdress  of  grass  and  mussel  shells  and  col 
oured  feathers,  and  he  moved  at  tension  through  the  hot, 
moist  air. 

Going  so,  he  overtook  another  who  had  left  those  who 
gorged  upon  mammoth  meat  —  Aneka  the  Wise  Woman. 
He  shook  his  coloured  headdress;  jealousy  stung  him. 
"Ha,  Aneka !  It  is  Haki  who  walks  here  by  night  and  talks 
with  One  Other!  —  Why  do  you  not  stay  and  watch  chil 
dren  so  that  they  do  not  eat  that-which-poisons?" 

Aneka,  wrinkled  and  brown,  gazed  at  him  and  then 
over  the  fen  to  the  golden  moon.  "There  is  much  spite 
in  you,  Haki!  I  am  older  than  you  and  I  walked  here  first." 

They  turned  into  the  path  through  the  fen.  Haki  waved 
his  arms.  "You  and  all  the  people  cry  to  the  Great 
Turtle.  I  cry  to  One  Other!" 

"One  Other?"  asked  Aneka.   "Where  is  she?" 

Haki  looked  at  her  aslant.  His  voice  sank.  "Hush!  He 
has  gone  into  the  ground  for  the  night.  He  lives  in  the 


sun." 


The  long  houses  used  feminine  pronouns  when  they 
spoke  of  the  supernatural.  Aneka  stared  at  Haki.  "He?" 
she  said.  "How  bold  are  you,  O  Haki!" 

But  Haki,  having  plucked  a  feather  from  the  future, 
came  back  to  the  present  and  its  so  solid  seeming  realities. 
A  thrill  of  fear  and  awe  of  the  Great  Turtle  ran  through 
him,  with  thought  of  what  vengeance  she  might  take.  "I 
call  to  the  Great  Turtle  too!"  he  said  hastily.  "One  Other 
and  the  Great  Turtle  are  friends." 

"Can  One  Other  make  children?"  asked  Aneka. 

It  was  the  wall  that  towered  before  the  male's  assertion 
of  equality.  Nothing  with  the  masculine  pronoun  could 
do  that!  The  people  of  the  long  houses  knew  all  about 


44  THE   WANDERERS 

mating.  They  had  words  in  plenty  for  that.  But  they 
had  no  word  like  "father."  Haki  uttered  a  guttural 
sound,  half  despair,  half  anger.  He  walked  in  silence  while 
the  moon  climbed  the  sky.  Then  revolt  again  raised  its 
head.  "One  Other  will  find  out  how!" 

Aneka  knew  plants  that  poisoned  and  plants  that  healed. 
Stooping,  she  gathered  a  plant  that  used  one  way  was 
poisonous  and  used  another  was  healthful.  Aneka  was 
old  and  knew  much.  Throughout  life  she  had  had  a  watch 
ful  eye  and  comparing  mind.  But  it  was  not  her  way  to  tell 
all  that  she  knew.  .  .  .  She  gathered  stalk  and  leaf  and 
moved  with  Haki  in  silence. 

They  were  now  somewhat  deep  in  the  fen.  Presently, 
the  path  curving  like  a  tusk  of  Big  Trouble,  they  came  to 
the  shield-like,  lifted  place.  The  moon  bathed  it  white. 
Clothed  in  that  silver  Gata  and  Amru  lay  asleep. 

The  old  Wise  Woman  and  the  early  Medicine  Man  stood 
and  gazed.  The  moon  looked  very  large,  the  fen  very  wide. 
The  two  interlaced  figures  seemed  large  with  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Aneka  and  Haki  watched  awhile,  then  turned 
aside  without  waking  the  sleepers.  Their  path,  bending, 
led  them  again  to  the  edge  of  the  fen,  to  the  quarter  whence 
they  had  come.  Haki  walked  perhaps  cogitating  the  pair, 
perhaps  cogitating  One  Other  who  had  gone  into  the 
ground  for  the  night,  One  Other  and  his  possibly  devel 
oping  powers.  But  Aneka  looked  over  her  shoulder  at  the 
full,  bright  moon. 

That  moon  waned  and  other  moons  waxed  and  waned, 
and  Gata  and  Amru  remained  companions  and  most  fond 
of  each  other.  That  was  not  so  usual  among  the  people 
of  the  long  houses.  Only  at  great  intervals  arose  among 
them  some  example  of  enduring  attachment  between  woman 


BIG   TROUBLE  45 

and  man.  So  novel  was  it  that  when  it  markedly  happened 
the  group  paid  attention.  It  was  a  social  phenomenon 
of  the  first  importance,  and  though  they  gave  it  no  such 
sounding  name,  and  indeed  no  name  at  all,  they  noted  it. 

For  many  days  after  the  slaying  of  Big  Trouble,  Gata 
and  Amru  hunted  in  company.  The  forest  received  them 
in  the  morning;  they  returned  at  eve,  bearing  game  or  wear 
ing  trophies  to  show  that  certain  four-footed  enemies  of 
the  long  houses  were  enemies  no  more.  The  people  praised 
them.  Children  were  told,  "Grow  up  to  be  like  Gata  and 
Amru!" 

Moons  brightened,  moons  darkened.  At  last  it  was  seen 
that  Gata  was  making  a  child.  After  that,  as  the  custom 
had  grown  to  be,  she  hunted  no  more.  .  .  .  Amru  was  jeal 
ous  of  the  child  that  Gata  was  making.  He  felt  a  fierce 
ness  toward  it  as  though  it  were  a  man 'fighting  with  him 
for  Gata's  favour.  From  that  he  passed  to  anger  with 
Gata  herself.  Gata  could  not  like  Amru  as  much  as  Amru 
liked  Gata.  She  would  be  showing  superiorities!  Savage 
pride  was  hurt.  Amru  and  Gata  had  a  loud  quarrel,  after 
which  they  parted  as  companions. 

Gata  went  to  the  forest  and  walked  there  alone.  Amru 
and  other  men  were  making  a  boat.  Boats  were  a  mystery 
belonging  to  men.  Men  had  had  that  notion,  had  experi 
mented  with  it,  and  then  had  declined  to  share  knowledge 
and  honours.  Men  went  ostentatiously  apart  when  they 
would  make  a  boat.  They  kept  a  thicket  screen  between 
them  and  the  long  houses,  and  they  stationed  watchers. 
The  women  heard  the  thud  of  the  falling  tree,  and  they 
smelled  the  smoke  when  began  the  hollowing  process  — 
but  for  the  rest  it  was  a  mystery.  When  the  boat  was 
made,  it  was  held  to  belong  to  men. 


46  THE   WANDERERS 

Amru  was  strong  and  skilful  and  many  of  the  folk  had 
a  liking  for  him,  and  he  tended  to  become  a  leader.  Now 
with  other  young  men  he  was  making  a  boat.  .  .  .  Gata 
walked  alone  by  the  edge  of  the  forest.  She  could  see, 
between  her  and  the  river,  the  curling  smoke  where  the 
men  worked.  She  carried  a  spear,  and  felt  no  especial  ter 
ror  of  the  forest.  The  forest  and  its  creatures  composed 
an  old,  familiar  pattern  in  her  brain.  Within  her  was 
aglow  another  ancient  pattern.  .  .  . 

She  sat  down  between  the  outcropping  roots  of  a  tree. 
A  play  of  emotions  filled  her,  kept  her  in  a  manner  of  iri 
descent  dream.  Around  spread  the  forest  floor  of  per 
ished  leaves,  multitudinous,  layer  after  layer  of  perished 
leaves.  Overhead  were  the  green  leaves,  quivering  and 
thrilling.  The  savage  woman  sat  and  felt,  and  as  best  she 
could  thought.  .  .  .  Imagination  waked  in  her.  Some 
where  or  other,  she  distinctly  saw  herself,  moving  beneath 
the  trees,  holding  against  her  shoulder  the  child  that  would 
be  born.  She  knew  with  certainty  that  she  would  be  fond 
of  it.  ...  After  this,  she  thought  of  Amru.  She  sat  quite 
still,  her  spear  beside  her,  her  dark  red  hair  shadowing  her 
face.  She  felt  at  once  old  and  young  —  as  though  she  had 
lived  long,  and  as  though  sky  and  earth  were  new.  .  .  . 

Near  the  tree  grew  flowering  bushes,  and  in  the  branchy 
mass  of  one  was  set  a  bird's  nest,  filled  with  callow  young. 
Gata  fell  to  watching  the  nest  and  the  bird  that  perched 
beside  it.  Hunter's  experience,  savage  experience,  gave 
at  wish  an  immobility  of  body,  a  mimicry  of  rooted  life. 
Gata  seemed  as  unmoving  as  the  trunk  of  the  tree.  The 
nestlings  opened  their  mouths  and  stirred  their  unfeath- 
ered  bodies.  The  bird  spread  its  wings  and  went  farther 
into  the  flowery  thicket.  When  it  returned  it  had  food  in 


BIG   TROUBLE  47 

its  beak.  It  fed  its  young.  In  a  moment  came,  too,  the 
male  bird  —  it  also  bore  food  and  fed  the  young.  The 
mother  bird  perched  once  more  beside  the  nest.  The  he- 
bird  perched  upon  a  second  branch  and  sang.  "Sweet!  So 
sweet!"  was  its  song,  and  the  she-bird  and  the  young  birds 
seemed,  liking  it,  to  listen.  Gata  listened  likewise. 

The  human  group  by  the  forest  and  the  fen,  as  human 
groups  everywhere  upon  the  ancient  earth,  struggled  with 
mysteries.  Why  was  thus  and  thus  so?  Given  a  fact,  what 
went  before  the  fact,  and  what  was  to  come  out  of  it?  The 
mind  struggled,  the  mind  pondered  then  as  ever,  and  then 
as  ever  small,  chance  observations  might  put  fire  to  long 
and  long  accumulated  fuel.  .  .  .  "Sweet!  Sweet!"  sang 
the  he-bird,  and  the  she-bird  listened,  and  the  young  birds 
opened  and  shut  their  mouths  and  pushed  with  their 
wings.  Gata  sat  and  watched.  A  compound  happening, 
seen  in  her  existence  a  myriad  times  with  the  physical  eye, 
now,  quietly  and  easily,  took  meanings  unthought  of  be 
fore.  Why  did  the  he-bird  bring  food  to  the  young  birds? 
Why  did  the  he-bird,  as  well  as  the  she-bird,  watch  the 
nestlings  and  drive  away  harm?  Why  did  the  one,  as  well 
as  the  other,  teach  the  young  birds  to  fly?  ...  "Sweet! 
So  sweet!"  sang  the  he-bird,  and  the  she-bird  listened, 
and  the  young  birds  opened  and  shut  their  mouths  and 
pushed  with  their  wings,  and  all  around  were  the  flower 
ing  bushes.  .  .  . 

Suns  rose  from  the  fen  and  sank  behind  the  forest,  and 
Amru  and  his  fellows  finished  making  their  boat.  It  was 
a  longer  boat,  a  more  skilfully  made  boat  than  any  the 
houses  had  yet  seen.  There  was  great  triumph  when,  all 
pushing  and  pulling  and  lifting  together,  the  men  got  it 
into  the  narrow  stream  by  which  they  had  worked,  and 


48  THE   WANDERERS 

then  down  this  into  the  wide,  slow-flowing  river.  The 
next  thing  was  to  be  an  Expedition  —  a  seeing  what  was 
up  the  river,  farther  than  any  had  yet  gone! 

Twelve  young  men  went  upon  the  Expedition.  They 
hewed  and  trimmed  saplings  with  which  to  pole  the  boat, 
for  the  oar  was  not  yet.  The  long  houses,  women  and 
men,  watched  them  depart.  It  was  a  high  occasion,  one 
that  called  for  vociferation,  chanting,  laughter,  shouts 
to  boat  and  boatmen  until  all  had  dwindled  to  a  dark 
splinter  upon  the  river,  until  a  horn  of  the  earth  came  be 
tween  them  and  the  houses.  A  number  of  the  men  fol 
lowed  along  the  bank  for  a  distance,  but  after  a  time  the 
forest  grew  chokingly  thick  and  they  desisted.  Haki, 
shaking  his  string  of  gourds,  tossing  his  arms  in  the  air, 
went  and  returned  with  the  followers.  .  .  .  Until  the  point 
of  earth  came  between,  Gata  watched  Amru,  standing  in 
the  boat,  in  his  hands  the  shaft  of  a  young  tree.  Gata  and 
Amru  had  not  ended  their  quarrel. 

The  horn  of  earth  hid  the  long  houses.  The  boat 
could  no  longer  hear  the  shouting  and  chanting.  The  fen 
dropped  away  and  on  both  sides  of  the  river  stood  the 
forest.  It  was  very  thick,  it  stood  knee-deep  in  black, 
quaking  earth.  It  dropped  upon  the  flood  leaves  and 
petals  and  withered  twigs,  dropped  them  into  the  boat. 
The  boat  with  the  young  men  poling  moved  close  to  shore. 
The  river  was  wide,  but  it  looked  to  these  Argonauts 
wider  than  wide,  wide  and  fearful  1  That  was  ever  the 
way  with  the  impassable,  with  the  heretofore  unpassed. 
They  hugged  the  shore.  That  was  daring  enough,  so 
strange  as  yet  was  the  fact  of  a  boat  at  all! 

After  some  time  they  came  to  the  mouth  of  an  affluent 
of  the  great  river.  They  knew  the  nearer  bank  of  this 


BIG   TROUBLE  49 

stream;  nothing  new  to  be  gained  by  following  it  in  a  boat 
instead  of  afoot,  ashore,  among  cane  and  trees!  Amru 
gazed  at  the  farther  bank,  turning  the  pole  in  his  hands. 
He  harangued  the  eleven.  The  adventurers  poled  across 
the  affluent,  drawing  long  breaths  when  it  was  done.  Full 
of  pride,  they  laughed  exultingly.  Amru  stepped  nearer 
chieftainship. 

The  twelve  kept  on,  close  to  the  shore,  up  the  wide 
river.  This  shore  was  new.  They  peered  through  the  rank 
waterside  growth,  but  they  saw  nothing  that  they  might 
not  see  nearer  the  long  houses.  Before  the  sun  set  they 
had  gone  a  considerable  distance.  They  found  a  bank  of 
sand,  and  here  they  beached  their  boat,  and  gathering 
dead  wood  rubbed  sticks  together  and  made  a  fire.  They 
had  dried  meat  with  them  and  made  their  supper  of  this. 
Night  fell.  The  fire  burned  on,  for  protection  against  the 
serpent  world  and  the  four-footed  world.  One  watched 
and  eleven  slept.  Morning  coming,  they  roused  and  had 
breakfast.  In  great  good  spirits  they  looked  at  the  river 
and  at  their  boat,  the  beautiful  work  of  hand  and  brain  1 
The  twelve  felt  enterprising,  gay,  and  bold.  They  pushed 
off  the  boat,  climbed  in,  took  their  poles  in  hand.  This 
day  they  went  a  long  distance.  The  river  became  nar 
rower,  the  world  up  here  was  new.  In  the  afternoon  they 
fastened  the  boat  to  a  tree,  took  their  spears  and  hunted 
meat.  Having  killed,  they  made  a  fire  near  the  boat- 
tree,  cooked  and  ate.  Stars  tipped  the  black  trees  of  the 
opposing  shore,  stars  mirrored  themselves  in  the  stream. 
One  man  watched,  eleven  slept.  Dawn  came;  they  sprang 
up  and  untied  their  boat. 

Amru  looked  across  the  stream.  Mist  hung  upon  the 
opposite  bank;  then,  parting,  allowed  a  vision  of  a  plain- 


50  THE   WANDERERS 

like  space  of  grass  backed  by  hills  sharp  and  soaring  against 
a  fleckless  sky.  Amru  stared;  then  he  said,  "Let  us  go 
across  the  river,"  and  turned  the  sapling  in  his  hand  like 
an  oar. 

The  twelve  crossed  the  river  in  their  hollowed  and 
shaped  trunk  of  a  tree.  That  was  a  great  thing  to  do  and 
they  applauded  themselves.  Amru  felt  affection  for  the 
boat  that  had  done  so  well  by  them.  He  caressed  it  with 
his  hand.  Suddenly  he  gave  the  boat  a  name.  "Tree- 
with-Legs!"  he  said.  "Ko-te-lo!"  and  felt  pride  again  in 
Amru's  prowess. 

This  shore  was  higher  than  that  which  they  had  left, 
higher  and  less  heavily  wooded.  They  found  a  shelving 
place  up  which  they  lifted  and  hauled  Ko-te-lo.  Then, 
as  they  rested,  sitting  around  Ko-te-lo,  they  praised  their 
collective  prowess,  and  one  among  them  said  that  the 
Great  Turtle  had  helped  them  across.  But  Amru  said 
that  before  they  started  he  had  gone  into  the  forest  with 
Haki  and  that  Haki  had  sung  and  danced  to  One  Other 
who  lived  in  the  sun.  And  then,  because  Amru  felt  very 
bold  this  morning,  he  said  that  One  Other  was  like  a  man 
and  not  like  a  woman,  and  that  he  thought  with  Haki  that 
it  would  be  One  Other  who  helped  with  the  boat.  That 
was  natural,  said  Amru,  since  men  made  and  used  boats 
and  not  women.  The  Great  Turtle  was  like  a  woman  and 
helped  women.  Men  wanted  some  one  like  men.  One 
Other  had  a  long  house  in  the  sun,  and  spears  and  clubs 
and  boats  —  many  boats. 

The  eleven  listened,  attracted  but  doubtful,  somewhat 
awed  and  alarmed.  "But  he  cannot  make  children  — 
One  Other  cannot  make  children!" 

Amru  felt  anger.    Having  been  bold  he  must  become 


BIG   TROUBLE  51 

bolder  yet —  that  seemed  a  necessity  in  the  case.  Having 
entertained  the  idea  of  One  Other,  he  must  turn  the  idea 
away  or  make  of  it  an  inmate,  clothe  it,  and  give  it  pow 
ers.  He  wished  to  keep  authority  with  the  eleven,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  that  could  not  be  done  if  there  was 
retraction.  He  must  yet  further  aggrandize  One  Other. 
"He  makes  them  with  his  hands,"  he  said.  "He  cuts  them 
out  of  trees  and  sings  to  them  and  they  come  alive!" 

The  eleven  pondered  that.  Possibly  it  might  be  done. 
Amru's  words  made  them  see  a  hugely  tall,  strong,  much- 
decorated  man,  a  great  hunter  and  spear-thrower,  cutting 
shapes  out  of  trees  that  presently  came  alive  and  stood 
and  walked.  Had  they  not  themselves  fashioned  Ko-te-lo 
out  of  a  tree?  The  eleven  did  not  greatly  care  for  Haki, 
but  for  Amru  who  seemed  to  agree  with  Haki  they  did 
care.  They  had  for  Amru  a  sentiment  of  admiration.  He 
was  treading  firmly  the  unrolling  path  to  chieftaincy. 
And  all  the  long  house  men  desired  claims  with  which  to 
set  off  woman's  claim.  Their  hearts  began  to  lean  away 
from  the  Great  Turtle,  toward  the  big  hunter  in  the  sun  — 
he  who  could  make  persons. 

The  sun  came  up  over  the  hills.  They  looked  at  the 
great  ball  with  a  freshened  interest.  But  the  landscape 
grew  brighter  and  gayer  and  they  turned  toward  more 
familiar  explorations.  If  they  climbed  a  hill  they  might 
see  afar.  Amru  proposed  that  course  and  lifted  from 
the  boat  his  spear  of  tough  wood  with  well-sharpened 
flint  head.  The  others  were  content  to  follow  him.  They 
saw  that  Ko-te-lo  was  well  placed  above  the  water,  then, 
armed  with  spear  and  club  and  flint  knife,  they  took 
their  way  up  the  waves  of  earth.  They  might  meet  ser 
pents  and  four-footed  enemies.  They  did  not  look  for 


52  THE  WANDERERS 

foes  who  walked  on  two  feet,  and  yet  these  were  the  ones 
they  met. 

Out  of  a  ravine  between  hills  rose  a  hunting  band  as 
well  armed  as  themselves  and  outweighing  them  in  num 
ber.  There  was  some  parley,  but  it  led  nowhere.  The 
stronger  party  flung  a  spear  —  in  a  moment  began  a  con 
flict  that  grew  more  and  more  fierce  and  red.  When  it 
ended  four  of  the  twelve  lay  slain.  The  eight,  whelmed 
by  numbers,  lost  spear  and  club  and  knife,  had  at  last 
only  naked  bodies.  The  eight  were  captives.  They  glared, 
and  Amru  more  redly  than  any,  baring  his  teeth. 

The  victor  group  was  one,  it  seemed,  somewhat  ad 
vanced  in  the  notion  of  warfare  everywhere,  upon  one's 
own  kind  no  less  than  other  kinds.  The  settlement  to 
which  the  eight  were  borne  had  that  aspect.  The  people 
were  fiercer,  wilder  than  those  who  dwelled  by  the  great 
river. 

One  of  the  eight  died  from  a  spear  wound.  Another  had 
his  brains  beaten  out  one  day  by  an  infuriated  giant  of 
the  tribe.  The  six  in  captivity  saw  three  moons  appear, 
wax  and  wane.  Then  they  escaped  —  Amru  the  planner 
and  leader. 

A  storm  came  up  and  blew  between  them  and  the  tribe 
among  the  hills.  They  got  down  to  the  river  —  they  found 
Ko-te-lo  where  they  had  hidden  her.  The  people  behind 
them  knew  naught  of  boats  or  boat-making.  The  six  put 
off  and  poled  for  the  other  side  of  the  river.  A  current 
caught  them,  carried  them  down,  dashed  them  against  a 
rock,  the  storm  howling  around.  Ko-te-lo  overturned  — 
one  of  the  six  was  drowned.  The  five  got  their  boat  righted, 
entered  her  again  and  came  at  last  to  their  natal  side  of 
the  flood.  They  put  Ko-te-lo  where  she  could  not  run 


BIG   TROUBLE  53 

away,  then  they  lay  down  in  cane  and  mire  and  slept  like 
the  dead.  The  storm  beat  the  woods  and  roared  and 
howled  for  a  day  and  a  night.  They  lay  close  until  it  was 
over  and  the  sun  shone  out  and  the  earth  sent  up  steam. 
Then  the  five  and  Ko-te-lo  turned  homeward. 

They  had  adventures,  but  not  great  adventures,  poling 
down  the  stream,  poling  down  the  stream  as  fast,  as  stead 
ily,  as  the  five  could  go.  Between  the  north  bank  and  the 
south  bank,  between  the  sunset  and  the  morning  red, 
Amru  thought  of  Gata.  —  Ko-te-lo  and  the  five  came  in 
sight  of  the  long  houses. 

Haki  saw  the  boat  upon  the  distant  reaches.  Waving 
his  arms,  bending  and  leaping,  shrilly  chanting,  he  cried 
the  news.  Women,  men,  children,  the  place  rushed  to  the 
water's  edge.  The  five  approaching  broke  into  chanting. 
With  a  wild  and  deep  rise  and  fall  and  swing  of  voice,  they 
told  the  adventures  of  Ko-te-lo  and  the  twelve.  Before 
Ko-te-lo  touched  the  bank  the  long  houses  knew  the  gist 
of  it  —  how  the  twelve  had  travelled  and  for  so  huge  dis 
tances  —  the  crossing  of  the  water  and  the  naming  of 
Ko-te-lo  —  the  hunters  encountered  and  how  they  were 
not  stronger  men,  but  more  men  —  the  slaying  of  the  four 
—  of  the  two  —  captivity  —  escape  —  the  behaviour  of 
Ko-te-lo  —  the  drowning  of  the  one  —  the  final  escape 
of  the  five  —  the  journey  home.  Amru's  voice  was  the 
fullest,  the  most  powerful  and  the  richest.  "Amru  led 
them!"  he  chanted,  and  the  four  added  their  strength. 
"Amru  led  us  I"  "All  brave  men!"  chanted  Amru,  and 
the  four  sounded  with  him.  "All  brave  men!"  chanted 
Amru,  "we  who  are  dead  and  we  who  are  alive!"  He 
stood  in  the  prow  of  the  boat  and  shook  the  young  tree- 
trunk  in  his  hand.  .  .  .  The  voice  of  the  long  houses  out- 


54  THE  WANDERERS 

swelled  toward  Kote-lo  and  Amru  and  the  four.  All  had 
been  thought  dead.  To  have  five  —  and  the  five  bravest, 
Amru  and  the  four  —  was  triumph!  Ko-te-lo  reached  the 
bank  amid  a  frenzy  of  voices,  of  gestures  of  welcome.  The 
long  houses  would  not  let  the  feet  of  the  explorers  touch 
earth. 

Triumph  meant  ceremonial  feasting  and  dancing.  .  .  . 
That  evening  such  a  feast  was  toward  as  had  not  been 
since  the  death  of  Big  Trouble!  It  was  a  feast  for  the 
return  of  Amru  and  the  four  and  likewise  it  was  a  birth 
feast. 

The  middle  house  was  the  greatest,  the  most  substan 
tial,  the  finest  of  the  structures.  Before  it  stood  the  carved- 
upon,  the  ochre-painted  stone,  sign  and  symbol  of  the 
Great  Turtle.  The  houses  could  not  remember  how  long 
it  had  been  there,  it  had  been  there  so  very  long.  It  had 
stood  there  before  these  houses  were  built,  when  they  had 
only  very  little,  rude  houses  of  fresh  boughs. 

The  middle  house  was  high  and  wide  and  deep,  a  brown 
cavernous  interior  with  a  central  hearth  of  stones.  Here 
a  fire  burned,  smoke  escaping  through  a  hole  in  the  roof. 
The  entrance  to  the  house  gaped  wide  as  a  true  cavern 
mouth.  Now,  seen  from  within,  another  fire  burned  upon 
the  baked  earth  terrace  before  the  middle  house  and  the 
other  houses.  Around  this  fire  in  an  ellipse  went  the  leap 
ing,  the  dancing  figures  of  the  feasting,  the  commemorat 
ing  people  of  the  long  houses.  From  within,  from  where 
Gata  lay  by  the  fire  upon  the  hearth,  it  seemed  that  they 
went  in  an  endless  line,  no  end,  no  beginning.  Only  when 
the  people  in  the  middle  house  itself  came  between  hearth 
and  entrance-way  did  she  lose  the  line,  the  endless  line 
that  yet  brought  Amru,  time  and  time  again,  before  the 


BIG   TROUBLE  55 

door.  She  lay  upon  wolf-skins,  and  beside  her  the  day-old 
babe.  Aneka  sat  by  the  fire,  and  women  and  men  and 
children  passed  in  and  out.  In  the  corners  of  the  shadowy 
house  were  kept  spears  and  shields  and  adornments  fitted 
for  such  occasions.  Men  came  to  take  these,  changing 
from  one  dress  to  another.  Without,  within,  beat  the  fire 
light.  The  house,  the  night  without,  were  filled  with  forms, 
now  dark,  now  bright.  The  forms  had  drums  and  rattles. 
Bom  —  Bommm!  Bom  —  Bomm!  went  the  drums. 

The  ellipse  about  the  fire  without  broke.  It  became  a 
serpentine  line  and  entered  the  middle  house.  If  Amru 
was  a  favourite,  Gata  was  no  less  a  favourite.  Amru's 
triumph  for  Amru  magic  —  Gata's  triumph  for  Gata 
magic!  In  a  world  of  mother-right,  births  were  births. 
The  dancers  danced  in  the  night  without;  they  came  with 
measured  pace  into  the  middle  house  and  circled  the 
hearth,  the  fire,  the  woman  and  her  babe.  Amru  danced 
at  the  head  of  the  young  men. 

Gata  raised  herself  upon  the  wolf-skins.  Her  eyes 
dwelled  upon  Amru,  followed  Amru  as  he  moved.  She, 
also,  had  forgotten  their  quarrel.  He  seemed  her  delec 
table  comrade,  tall  and  ruddy,  Amru  the  Great  Hunter, 
Amru  the  Boat-Maker!  The  feast  was  his.  The  feast  was 
hers.  She  looked  at  the  babe  upon  the  wolf-skin.  The 
feast  was  the  child's.  The  feast  was  Amru's,  Gata's, 
and  the  child's.  Her  eyes  shone  bright,  her  cheek  was 
ruddy  as  Amru's  own.  The  dancers  went  around  her  — 
they  went  around  her  and  the  hearth  and  the  fire  and 
the  child.  She  looked  at  Amru,  tall  and  ruddy,  dancing 
there.  He  was  dancing  before  her;  his  body  swayed 
like  flame,  his  body  rose  like  flame  and  touched  the  roof- 
pole.  She  heard  a  singing  of  birds,  she  smelled  the  flow- 


56  THE   WANDERERS 

ering  bush.    Boom!  beat  the  drums.     Boom!  Boom!    The 
fire  swung,  the  fire  climbed. 

Gata  rose  upon  her  knees.  She  began  to  chant.  Her 
voice  was  rich  and  full  —  strength  seemed  to  have  come 
in  flood  —  it  seemed  that,  to-morrow,  she  might  hunt 
Big  Trouble  —  save  that  Big  Trouble  was  dead  and  done 
with!  The  drums  stopped  beating,  the  ring  stood  still. 
Persons  yet  without  the  house  now  came  inside.  There 
grew  a  throng.  The  fire-shine  pushed  from  the  hearth  out 
ward.  Gata  chanted. 

"  Folk  of  the  Great  Turtle  —  the  Turtle  who  dwells 
Both  inside  and  out  of  her  house!" 

"She  is  possessed!"  cried  the  folk.  "She  is  going  to  tell 
Truth!" 

"Wise  is  Haki  and  wise  is  Aneka,  but  Wisdom 
Drops  in  the  wood  for  who  picks  it  up! 

Where  I  found  Wisdom  I  lifted  it,  and  bore  it  by  day  and  by  night. 
Carrying  it  safe  in  the  darkness,  watching  and  saying  naught. 
Now  will  it  live  in  the  light  that  stirred  in  the  dark,  — 
Now  will  I  tell  you  Truth  about  woman  and  man  and  a  child." 

Bending,  she  took  the  child  from  the  wolf-skin,  held  it 
high  in  her  hands.  The  light  leaped  and  caressed  it.  The 
great  ring  of  women  and  men  seemed  to  come  into  rela 
tion  with  it;  they  slanted  toward  it,  it  seemed  to  draw 
their  bodies,  to  act  as  a  magnet.  Gata  chanted  on. 

"Shout  and  dance,  folk  of  the  Turtle!  Cry,  '  Gata  is  Mother!' 
True  and  happy  that  is  —  but  of  this  child  two  are  mothers!" 

Aneka  rose  beside  her.  "She  has  been  given  lash-lash 
to  drink!  She  is  singing  foolishness!  Beat  the  drums 
and  dance!  —  Woman,  woman,  you  had  better  go  throw 
yourself  into  the  river — " 


BIG   TROUBLE  57 

But  Gala's  voice  sprang  still.  And  the  people  of  the 
long  houses  stood  like  a  listening  wood.  A  murmur  had 
arisen,  but  it  passed  like  a  sigh.  All  hung  intent. 

"Now,  rub  the  forehead  and  answer,  you  who  sit  by  the  council  tree, 
You  who  say,  nodding  your  heads,  '  Boats  are  men's  work, 
Children  are  women's  work!' 

Now,  answer,  for  I  will  question  you,  folk  of  the  Turtle! 
From  the  body  of  woman  comes  forth  boy  and  girl  — 
In  my  hands  lies  him  who  will  be  a  man  — 
How  should  a  woman  make  both  woman  and  man? 
Woman  only? 

No  wise  one  among  you  gives  answer, 
No  woman  and  no  man, 
Haki  nor  Aneka! 

Is  it  not  a  strange  thing,  folk  of  the  Turtle? 
Now,  tell  me  again  and  give  answer  again, 
Have  you  seen  how  often  a  child  is  like  to  a  man, 
One  child  to  one  man? 

Has  a  man  naught  to  do  with  a  child  that  is  like  him  — 
A  child  that  is  like  him — " 

The  people  cried  out,  "Wisdom  is  on  her!"  The  links 
of  the  ring  shifted.  Amru  stood  before  her.  He  spoke. 
"Yes,  we  have  seen.  Why  is  that,  Gata?  And  why  are 
men  fond  of  children?" 

Gata,  holding  the  child  aloft,  rose  to  her  feet.  The 
flame-light  wrapped  her.  It  made  of  her  hair  a  sunrise 
cloud,  it  made  her  flesh  like  flowers. 

"Folk  of  the  Great  Turtle  —  the  Turtle  that  watches  the  river 
Flow  into  the  sea! 

Now  will  I  tell  you  a  Truth  —  a  truth  that  will  bind  us  together.  — 
Mother  is  Gata  —  and  mother  is  Amru! 
Mother  alike  are  Gata  and  Amru! 
Amru  and  Gata  came  together. 
To  Gata's  strength  Amru  gave  his  strength. 
To  Amru's  strength  Gata  gave  her  strength. 
Then  the  moons  rose  like  dancers  out  of  the  fen  — 


58  THE  WANDERERS 

Many  round  moons  —  I  counted  them  —  many  a  dancer! 

Then  came  forth  him  who  will  dance  strongly,  who  will  build  boats, 

Who  will  grow  like  Amru,  whom  I  will  name  Amru, 

For  he  is  Amru!  .  .  . 

What  woman  have  you  seen  make  a  child  in  a  world  of  no  men? 

I  am  mother,  and  Amru  —  Amru  and  Gata  make  children!" 

Like  a  flame  she  sank  from  her  height,  she  lay  among 
the  wolf-skins,  the  babe  against  her  knee. 

The  people  of  the  long  houses  broke  into  loud,  excited 
speech.  Generations  had  walked  as  unconscious  observ 
ers;  now  things  observed  took  on  order  and  meaning, 
came  alive.  Haki  began  to  chant,  and  on  the  wall  of  the 
middle  house  there  leaped  and  danced  his  tall  shadow. 
Amru  sat  on  the  earth  floor  beside  Gata  —  he  put  out  a 
finger  and  touched  the  babe's  hand.  .  .  .  But  Aneka  said, 
"Woman,  woman,  you  had  better  go  throw  yourself  into 
the  river—" 


CHAPTER  IV 

PROPERTY 

THE  sky  hung  grey,  with  wisps  of  cloud.  It  vaulted  a 
valley,  and  was  propped  by  hills,  long  as  billows  of  the 
open  main.  In  part  the  hills  stood  wooded,  in  part  they 
wore  a  robe  of  grass  and  stunted  bush.  The  valley  had  a 
grassy  floor,  like  a  miniature  plain.  It  spread  jade-green 
beneath  that  sky.  Far  off  soared,  darkly  purple,  one  moun 
tain  peak. 

The  huts,  round  in  shape  and  fairly  spacious,  were  built 
of  upright  stakes  with  an  interweaving  of  wattled  reeds. 
Close  at  hand  huddled  sheds  and  enclosures  for  flock  and 
herd,  and  all  stood  together  by  the  strand  of  a  silver  stream. 
Flock  and  herd,  watched  by  herdsmen,  wandered  through 
the  valley  or  drank  at  the  stream.  Near  the  huts  boys  were 
fishing,  standing  mid-leg  in  the  running  water.  Seated 
among  pebble  and  boulder  a  row  of  old  men  watched  and 
with  thin  voices  mocked  or  encouraged. 

Evening  drew  on  and  the  herdsmen  brought  the  sheep 
and  cattle  to  the  folds.  A  woman  came  out  of  the  largest 
hut,  a  strong  woman  with  dark-red  hair.  Hand  over  eyes, 
her  gaze  swept  the  northern  and  western  horizon.  Bare 
hill  met  grey  sky.  She  spoke  to  the  herdsmen.  They 
hearkened  to  her  and  answered,  leaning  on  their  staves. 
Said  one,  "We  heard  nothing  and  saw  nothing  at  the  other 
end  where  we  were."  Another  spoke  in  a  surly  voice,  "If 
I  were  a  war-man  again  and  out  of  this  valley,  I  would  not 
come  back!"  A  third  said,  "You  might  see,  O  Marzumat, 


60  THE   WANDERERS 

from  the  top  of  the  hill  —  "  The  woman  nodded  and  turned 
away.  She  called  to  a  boy  and  a  girl  at  play  near  the  folds, 
and  they  ran  to  her  and  walked  with  her. 

Near  the  huts  rose  a  hill,  bare  to  the  top,  hard  in  this 
light  as  a  mountain  of  jade.  The  woman  and  her  children 
climbed  it.  At  the  top  a  wind  blew,  a  swirling,  melancholy 
wind.  She  looked  again  from  this  height,  to  the  north  and 
west.  Nothing  broke  the  earth-line,  nothing  came.  The 
children,  too,  stared  from  point  to  point.  The  wind  blew 
their  hair  into  their  eyes,  whipped  their  bare  limbs.  They 
jumped  up  and  down  for  warmth.  "The  dark  is  coming," 
said  the  woman.  "Not  Saran  and  the  others!" 

Said  the  boy:  "Let  us  go  have  supper!  Bhuto  is  going  to 
sing  to  us  of  how  Bin-Bin  killed  the  giantess!" 

They  went  down  the  hillside.  The  boy  and  girl  capered 
and  danced  upon  the  path.  "  Saran  will  bring  me  a  bow  and 
arrows  and  a  dance-necklace!"  cried  the  first;  and  "Saran 
will  bring  me  a  dance-necklace  and  an  earring!"  answered 
the  second.  They  turned  upon  the  red-haired  woman. 
"What  else  will  he  bring,  Mother?" 

"Sheep  and  cattle  and  men  to  keep  them,  spears  and 
shields  and  pieces  of  copper,  grain  and  skins,  and  orna 
ments  to  wear." 

The  boy  danced  and  capered.  "I  am  going  to  grow  big! 
I  am  going  to  be  war-head  like  Saran  my  father!  I  am  go 
ing  to  fight  other-people!  I  am  going  to  bring  home  every 
kind  of  thing!" 

They  came  to  the  level  of  huts,  folds,  and  whispering 
stream.  Earth  and  air  that  had  been  grey  and  green  were 
now  grey  and  purple.  Fires  burned  in  the  larger  huts,  and 
the  smoke,  puffing  out  of  the  hole  in  the  thatch,  drifted 
and  eddied.  A  smell  of  seething  flesh  wrapped  the  place. 


PROPERTY  6 1 

In  pots  of  baked  clay  women  were  cooking  the  meat  of 
sheep  and  goats. 

Young,  and  in  prime,  and  old,  there  were  many  women. 
Within  wall  and  without  wall  showed  the  signs  of  their 
industries.  They  were  weavers  and  made  from  the  hair  of 
the  flocks  a  texture  that  to  an  extent  took  the  place  of  the 
immemorial  garments  of  beast-skins  or  of  woven  grass. 
They  were  potters,  and  they  skilfully  constructed  baskets, 
great  and  small.  Tanners,  their  tannery  told  where  it  was 
situated,  a  little  down  the  stream.  Living  now  upon  crea 
tures  which  they  had  corralled  and  mastered,  the  group, 
women  and  men,  were  mastered  by  the  mastered  and  be 
come  wanderers  and  pasture-seekers.  When  this  valley 
showed  eaten  up  and  small  for  the  herds,  another  would 
be  sought.  Therefore  there  was  little  planting  about  the 
reed  huts.  But  what  farming  and  gardening  was  practised 
belonged,  of  old  times,  to  women,  and  theirs  were  the  stone 
mills  for  the  bruising  and  grinding  of  grain.  The  indoor 
gear  was  counted  theirs,  and  the  rule  of  the  house.  Women 
and  men,  the  group  reckoned  descent  and  took  name  from 
the  side  of  the  mother. 

The  woman  who  had  climbed  the  hill  was  a  chief  woman. 
There  were  old  women,  wrinkled  and  wise,  as  there  were 
old  men,  who  sat  by  the  fire  or  in  the  sun  and  were  lis 
tened  to  and  in  much  obeyed.  But  this  woman,  through 
native  energy  and  also  because  she  was  paired  with  the 
strongest  man,  had  achieved  authority  before  she  was  old. 
The  valley  called  her  Marzumat. 

Marzumat  had  few  idle  bones  in  her  body.  When  now 
she  went  indoors,  into  the  largest  of  the  huts,  she  came  to 
the  hearth,  she  helped  with  the  pots  of  meat.  One  great 
pot,  steaming  like  a  fire-mountain,  must  be  lifted  from  the 


62  THE  WANDERERS 

place  of  mightiest  heat.  With  a  rude  handle,  unwieldy  and 
heated,  it  presented  a  weight  for  strong  arms.  Marzumat 
lifted  it,  swung  it  clear  from  the  flame,  and  set  it  upon  the 
unreddened  hearth.  With  two  or  three  of  her  fellows  she 
took  meal,  mixed  it  with  milk  and  water,  made  cakes,  and, 
kneeling,  baked  them  upon  slabs  of  stone  sunk  in  coals. 
Those  around  her  talked;  the  place  was  filled  with  voices. 
Marzumat  could  speak  on  occasion,  but  to-night  she  was 
silent,  her  mind  following  Saran  and  the  war-men. 

The  formless  dark  came  down.  Women  lighted  the 
torches  of  resinous  wood,  and  women  brought  and  filled 
from  the  huger  pots  bowls  of  fire-dried  clay  and  trough-like 
trenchers  of  wood,  and  a  woman,  standing  in  the  doorway, 
blew  the  summoning  ram's  horn.  All  —  women,  old  men 
and  children  and  the  herdsmen  —  ate  together,  in  this 
greatest  hut  where  the  mess  had  been  cooked,  or  just  with 
out,  seated  on  the  ground,  in  the  light  of  the  torches. 
Noticeably,  there  lacked  young  men  and  men  in  their 
prime.  Among  the  herdsmen  sat  young  men  and  middle- 
aged  men.  But  certain  of  these  were  simple  of  look  or  in 
some  way  weak  or  maimed,  and  others  had  copper  rings 
about  their  necks.  That  meant  that  the  ring-wearers  did 
not  belong  by  nature  to  the  group,  but  had  been  seized 
from  some  other  group.  No  longer  were  they  hunters  or 
war-men.  They  were  tamed  to  keeping  the  flocks  and  herds 
of  the  captors,  companions  to  the  weaker  and  duller  of  the 
captors'  own  group.  The  intractable  were  killed,  as  were 
the  too  weak  or  dull.  Class  and  caste  were  in  the  world. 

The  fire  and  the  torches  threw  a  smoky  and  uneven 
light.  The  sky  hung  black  and  low,  a  roof  of  cloud.  The 
stream  murmured  over  pebbles.  It  was  the  lambing  sea 
son,  and  from  the  folds  rose  a  continuous  low  noise,  from 


PROPERTY  63 

the  ewes  and  their  young.  In  the  circle  of  fire  and  torch 
light  shadows  were  thrown  against  the  walls.  The  shadows 
rose  and  fell;  now  they  were  dwarfs  and  now  they  were 
giants  and  now  they  were  something  in  between.  The  shad 
ows  were  chiefly  those  of  women.  Women  forms  passed 
from  darkness  into  light,  from  light  into  darkness,  from 
darkness  again  into  light.  Marzumat  was  seated  now  and 
the  fire-shine  struck  her  brow  and  breast  and  knee.  Be 
hind  her,  on  the  wall,  spread  and  towered  her  shadow. 

Supper  eaten,  occurred  a  lingering,  for  the  night  was 
cold  and  the  fire  was  warm.  The  smaller  children  went 
away,  to  creep  under  sheep-skins  and  fall  asleep;  the  babes 
were  hushed  already,  except  a  sick  one  that  wailed  in  a  hut 
a  stone-cast  away.  A  fire  burned  in  the  hut,  and  a  woman 
passed  to  and  fro  before  it,  the  babe  in  her  arms.  Certain 
herdsmen  went  to  the  folds  and  pens,  others  sat  still  about 
the  fire  in  the  open  air.  The  older  children,  the  old  men, 
the  many  women  remained  in  the  zone  of  warmth  and 
light.  Talk  was  chiefly  of  the  war-band  that  had  gone  forth 
against  other-people  dwelling  by  the  purple  mountain. 
Valley  people  and  mountain  people  each  had  eyes  for  an 
intermediate  rolling  and  verdant,  desirable  pasturage. 
Mountain  war-men  had  struck  a  valley  herd  that  had  put 
hoof  into  this  region,  taking  the  beasts  and  killing  the 
herdsmen.  Now  there  was  to  be  retaliation,  and  all  the 
strong  men  had  gone  forth  to  retaliate  and  something  be 
yond.  Not  in  the  memory  of  the  valley  people  had  there 
been  such  a  Punitive  Expedition! 

Marzumat's  children,  the  girl  and  the  boy,  hung  around 
a  man  with  pale-blue  eyes  and  a  hawk  nose  and  beard  and 
hair  as  white  as  the  fleece  of  a  lamb.  "Bhuto,  Bhuto! 
Sing  us  about  how  we  used  to  do!" 


64  THE   WANDERERS 

Bhuto  sang  out  of  the  history  of  the  group.  In  part  he 
knew  and  in  part  he  made  up.  He  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the 
night  beyond  the  fire,  he  marked  time  with  a  large  foot 
and  a  veinous  hand.  He  had  a  sonorous  voice,  a  capacious 
memory,  and  a  seeing  eye.  To-night  the  strain,  the  wishing- 
to-know  felt  throughout  the  cluster,  was  apprehended  by 
him  more  clearly  than  by  most.  So  his  voice  deepened, 
his  words  rang,  the  acts  he  narrated  seemed  neither  far  off 
nor  obscure.  Presently  the  whole  cluster  was  listening. 
Bhuto  chanted  of  long-since  raids  and  war-bands. 

The  boy  and  girl  sat  beside  his  knees.  Bhuto  came  to  a 
traditional  pause.  Part  one  of  the  ballad  was  done. 

The  girl  spoke.  "Bhuto,  why  are  there  no  war-women? 
Why  do  not  women  go  with  war-bands  and  fight  other- 
people?" 

"Once  they  did,"  answered  Bhuto.  "That  was  long 
ago." 

"Why  did  they  stop?" 

"  It  was  seen  that  peoples  died  —  not  here  a  man  and 
here  a  woman  —  but  peoples." 

"How  did  they  die?" 

"They  were  not  born.  So  it  was  seen  that  women  must 
not  be  killed  and  killed.  So  the  women  and  men  held  a 
great  council,  and  after  that  there  were  war-men,  but  not 


war-women." 


"But  Bin-Bin  killed  the  giantess—" 

"Yes.  Every  people  had  a  giantess  who  would  not  stay 
at  home.  The  one  Bin-Bin  killed  was  a  war-head.  She  was 
tall  as  a  tree  and  she  could  run  like  a  deer  and  see  at  night 
like  an  owl,  and  when  she  shouted  the  wood  shook!  But 
Bin-Bin  killed  her.  Now  women  all  stay  with  the  houses 
and  the  flocks  and  herds.  If  other-people  come  here  and 


PROPERTY  65 

make  fight,  they  will  fight.  But  they  do  not  make  war- 
bands.  Men  do  that.  Men  have  bows  and  arrows  and 
shields  and  spears." 

The  girl  fell  silent,  sitting  with  her  chin  upon  her  knees. 
Bhuto  began  to  chant  the  second  half  of  the  ballad. 

A  great  distance  away,  as  these  people  counted  distance, 
behind  the  curtain  of  hills,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
peak,  the  cloud-roofed  day  and  evening  had  gone  after 
another  fashion.  It  had  gone  with  struggle,  fury,  jubila 
tion,  terror,  death,  and  subjection. 

The  war-band  from  the  valley  numbered  a  hundred  men. 
The  group  upon  which  they  fell  in  the  hour  before  dawn 
fought  back,  men  and  women.  But  it  was  taken  by  sur 
prise  and  bewildered,  and  many  could  not  reach  their 
weapons,  and  many  were  pierced  with  spears  almost  be 
fore  they  rose  from  sleep.  The  hundred  wrought  havoc, 
slew  and  bound.  When  the  east  showed  purple,  resistance 
lay  dead,  or  glared,  with  tied  hands,  from  a  space  into 
which,  naked,  it  had  been  driven  like  a  beast.  The  old 
men,  the  old  women,  the  young  children,  were  put  to  death. 
Many  strong  men  and  women  lay  slain.  Resistance,  raging, 
biting  at  its  bonds,  came  to  be  the  resistance  of  not  more 
than  the  hundred  could  handle  as  captives.  They  set  the 
huts  afire,  but  not  before  there  was  gathered  from  them 
spoil  and  booty.  This  group  had  possessed  flocks  and 
herds.  Flocks  and  herds  were  taken  for  riches  for  the 
group  in  the  valley.  The  valley  men  had  never  before  had 
so  complete  a  victory.  This  was  different  from  mere  raids 
against  herds  or  herdsmen,  or  chance  contests  upon  plain 
or  hill,  away  from  the  houses,  away  from  the  heaped 
goods ! 

The  attackers  sat  down  and  ate  arid  drank  and  rested 


66  THE  WANDERERS 

from  labour  in  the  light  of  the  burning  huts,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  purple  mountain.  They  rejoiced  when  they 
looked  at  the  heap  of  spoil,  and  at  the  sheep  and  the  cattle 
and  the  human  dead  and  the  captives. 

The  leader  of  the  hundred  was  a  strong  man,  tall  and 
ruddy,  with  the  seeming  of  one  who  would  march  in  front. 
In  other  lives,  before  war  between  human  beings  had  well 
developed,  he  would  have  been  a  leader  of  the  chase,  a 
mighty  hunter  of  the  four-footed,  a  chief  in  expeditions, 
explorations.  Now  he  was  war-head. 

He  and  all  the  other  men  from  the  valley  rested  through 
a  smoky,  a  fire-filled  night.  When  the  day  came  they  pre 
pared  their  leave-taking.  Yet  another  distance  away 
dwelled  another  group,  that,  seeing  a  glow  in  the  night, 
might  send  their  war-men  in  strength.  War  was  an  endless 
chain,  though  these  minds  were  not  advanced  enough  to 
find  that  out. 

Back  among  the  huts  in  the  valley  the  night  passed,  the 
day  following  passed,  another  night  passed.  The  cloud- 
roof  sank  to  the  horizon,  the  sky  above  sprang  high  and 
clear.  Dawn  arose  with  purple  figures  in  the  east  that 
looked  like  girdles  and  necklaces  of  tinted  shells  and  peb 
bles.  Dawn  in  the  north  and  west  showed  a  cool  pallor, 
a  blank  wall  behind  the  long  hills. 

The  women  came  singly  or  in  clusters  from  the  huts,  the 
herdsmen  from  where  they  had  slept  apart  in  a  structure 
built  against  the  sheep-fold,  the  older  children  with  the 
women.  All  looked  to  the  north  and  west,  as  they  had  done 
many  times  since  the  hundred  went  out.  Now  they  were 
rewarded  —  now  they  saw  the  war-men  coming  back! 

They  saw  them  upon  the  top  of  a  bare  hill,  drawn  against 
the  pale  wall,  and  following  them  captives,  and  sheep  and 


PROPERTY  67 

goats  and  cattle  and  asses,  and  these  last  heaped  and  bur 
dened  with  the  lighter  spoil.  The  people  of  the  huts  shouted, 
leaped  in  the  air,  clapped  their  hands  together. 

"Marzumat!  They  are  coming!" 

"Bina!  They  are  coming!" 

"Ito!They  are  coming!" 

The  war-men  had  with  them  horns,  a  rude  drum  and 
cymbals.  Faint  clangour  and  blaring  fell  from  the  hill-top 
to  the  huts  by  the  stream.  The  frieze  showed  black  against 
the  pale  wall,  then  the  east  brightened  and  gave  it  colour. 
The  line  bent,  came  down  over  the  shoulder  of  the  hill.  The 
horns  blew,  the  cymbals  clanged,  the  drum  beat  louder  and 
louder.  In  the  huts  were  yet  a  drum,  cymbals  fashioned  of 
copper,  ox-horns.  The  women  snatched  these  —  all  who 
could  run  and  hasten  poured  from  the  huts  by  the  stream, 
hurried  with  cries  and  music  of  welcome  over  the  valley 
floor.  They  went  with  a  dancing  step,  and  Marzumat  at 
the  head  lifted  the  cymbals  and  clanged  them  together. 
The  two  bands  met  by  the  stream,  where  the  mist  was 
slowly  lifting. 

The  war-head's  name  was  Saran.  He  and  Marzumat 
met  first.  "Hail,  Saran!  Hail,  Saran!"  she  cried  with 
laughter  and  jubilee.  "Hail,  Marzumat!"  he  answered, 
and  shook  his  copper-pointed  spear  and  struck  it  against 
his  shield  of  plaited  osier  bound  with  leopard-skin. 

All  met  with  acclaim,  shouting  out  triumph  and  wel 
come.  The  older  children  took  part.  The  native-born 
herdsmen  joined  in.  Those  herdsmen  who  were  born  on 
the  farther  side  of  a  mountain  or  a  river  made  slighter  wel 
come.  But  of  these  some  had  been  taken  young  and  hardly 
remembered  their  own  people,  and  some  had  been  broken 
in,  or,  indifferent,  took  luck  as  they  found  it.  Besides,  the 


68  THE   WANDERERS 

group  against  which  the  war-men  had  gone  was  not  their 
group,  and  that  being  so,  was  outside  their  range  of  sym 
pathies.  So  the  herdsmen,  too,  shouted. 

Of  the  war-men  who  had  gone  forth,  seven  or  eight  made 
no  returning.  For  these  the  valley,  when  it  had  caught 
breath,  burst  into  ceremonial  mourning.  Out  of  the  mass 
sound  emerged  a  sharper  crying,  a  wailing  of  those  most 
fond  of  the  slain  men,  mourning  that  persisted  when  the 
other  ceased.  The  other  ceased  because,  death  to  the  con 
trary,  here  was  so  much  victory  and  spoil!  Jubilation  re 
mounted.  In  the  background  rose  the  lowing  and  bleating 
of  the  captured  herds.  There  was  a  great,  swarming  noise, 
and  movement  to  and  fro. 

The  first  welcome  gone  by,  there  came  into  fuller  no 
tice  the  fruits  of  the  raid,  the  greatest  in  the  memory  of 
the  group.  Those  who  had  stayed  by  the  huts  saw  the  new 
flocks  and  herds,  and  that  possessions  would  be  increased. 
There  would  be  need  of  a  larger  valley,  of  a  plain!  Hearts 
swelled  with  self-acclaim.  The  confused  bleating  and  low 
ing  was  sweet  as  flutes  and  pipes  in  their  ears. 

There  was  pushed  forward  one  part  of  the  human  spoil. 
The  war-men  exhibited  the  other-men  whom  they  had 
taken.  New  herds  would  have  new  herdsmen.  Trees  that 
must  be  hacked  down,  drudging  work  that  must  be  done, 
would  not  take  war-men's  valuable  time!  Moreover,  there 
was  now  experienced,  and  would  be  further  experienced,  a 
dark  pleasure  in  authority,  in  power  exercised  over  another. 
So  long  had  human  beings  had  power  over  beasts  that 
exhilaration  was  passing  from  that  situation.  Authority 
there  had  lost  its  first  lusciousness.  Once  it  had  had  that 
taste.  But  with  the  taking  of  beings  formed  like  themselves 
zest  had  come  back  to  the  palate. 


PROPERTY  69 

The  valley  group  was  accustomed  to  such  captives.  It 
was  among  accepted  things  that  bands  of  men,  roving  afar, 
meeting  other  bands  of  men,  should  capture,  when  they 
did  not  kill,  and  keep  the  captured  for  use.  That  was  old 
story,  old  song.  The  women,  the  old  men,  and  the  strip 
lings  made  loud  admiration  over  these  riches  also,  and  the 
evidenced  prowess  of  valley  men.  The  swarm  worked 
again  and  there  came  into  the  foreground  the  before-time 
obscured,  other  row  of  captives. 

Silence  fell  among  the  valley  people,  astonishment  upon 
those  who  had  stayed,  upon  those  who  had  gone,  embar 
rassment.  Marzumat  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Women  — " 

Saran  answered  with  a  wave  of  his  arm.  "Women  we 
took  and  brought  to  you  women.  We  take  men  to  work 
for  us  and  save  us  trouble.  Now  you  shall  have  women  to 
work  for  you  and  do  as  you  tell  them.  Why  not?"  He 
spread  his  arms.  "We  took  them  for  you,  O  women,  —  a 
gift!" 

The  throng  worked.  Insensibly,  the  women  of  the  group 
drew  together,  leaving  each  woman  the  side  of  some  man. 
They  became  compact,  unitary,  the  woman  with  the  dark- 
red  hair  in  front.  Presently  the  women  of  the  valley  were 
massed  here,  the  men  there.  Between  stood  or  lay,  fallen 
upon  the  ground,  the  captive  women.  They  were  twelve 
in  number. 

Marzumat  spoke.  "Never,  O  Saran,  —  never,  men  of 
the  valley,  never,  O  women,  was  there  heard  of  such  a 
thing!  You  have  committed  evil!  Mao-Tan  will  say  to 
In-Tan,  'Let  us  smite  them!'" 

Her  voice  rose  loudly,  her  arms  were  spread  to  the  skies. 
Behind  her  the  serried  women  echoed  assent.  The  war- 
men  moved  a  little,  to  and  fro.  "Talk  for  us,  O  Saran!" 


7o  THE   WANDERERS 

Marzumat's  voice  went  on.  "Men  may  take  other  men. 
If  women,  fighting  side  by  side  with  war-men  are  killed, 
they  are  killed.  Mao-Tan  says,  'It  cannot  be  helped/ 
But  men  may  not  take  women  and  bind  them  and  say 
to  them,  'Come!'  or  'Go!'  Mao-Tan!  —  Mao-Tan!" 

Saran  faced  Marzumat.  He  threw  out  his  hands.  "We 
took  trouble,  O  Marzumat!  We  set  up  a  stone  and  burned 
food  upon  it,  and  poured  drink  for  Mao-Tan.  We  danced 
and  sang  before  her.  Then  we  did  the  same  for  In-Tan. 
In-Tan  will  keep  Mao-Tan  from  being  angry.  Otherwise 
she  might  be  angry  for  a  while!  But  we  saw  In-Tan  sitting 
like  an  eagle  upon  a  tree  and  heard  him  talking  like  the 
wind.  He  said,  O  Marzumat,  that  valley  people  were  his 
people,  and  that  Mao-Tan  was  not  angry!" 

The  war-men  made  a  deep,  corroborating  sound.  They 
had  seen  the  eagle  and  heard  the  whistling  and  searching 
noise,  and  Saran's  imagination  leading,  they  had  divined 
the  words.  A  black-bearded  man,  next  to  Saran  in  moral 
weight,  gave  articulate  testimony.  "O  women  of  the  val 
ley!  In-Tan  said  that  Mao-Tan  and  he  held  in  hatred 
other-people,  and  cared  not  what  befell  them,  whether  they 
were  women  or  whether  they  were  men!" 

Saran  continued.  "We  take  men  to  work  for  us;  why 
should  you  not  have  women  to  work  for  you  and  do  as 
you  tell  them?  They  are  not  our  men.  They  are  not 
our  women.  Other-group-men,  other-group-women!  Old 
Bhuto  says  that,  long-time-ago,  it  was  a  new  thing  to 
make  other-men  work  for  us  and  be  our  herdsmen.  At 
first,  Bhuto  says,  we  had  men  who  did  not  like  that.  But 
soon  they  felt  like  the  rest  of  us.  —  We  thought,  O  Mar 
zumat,  that  we  would  please  you!  O  women  of  the  valley! 
they  can  carry  water  for  you  and  grind  the  corn.  It  is 


PROPERTY  71 

pleasant  to  rest  while  another  works!  Many  things  are 
right  when  they  are  other-people.  They  will  call  you 
*  mistress'  and  do  as  you  tell  them  — " 

The  body  of  the  valley  women  seemed  slightly  to  sway. 
Two  or  three  voices  were  lifted.  "Let  us  take  them !  Let  us 
keep  them!  There  grows  so  much  work  to  do!"  The  women 
and  the  war-men  seemed  to  slant  toward  each  other. 

The  black-bearded  man  spoke  again  in  a  loud  and  cheer 
ful  voice.  "They  are  riches,  O  women!  It  is  pleasant  to  be 
saved  weariness.  It  is  sweeter  than  honey  and  like  the 
wearing  of  ornaments  to  sit  and  see  other-people  do  what 
we  bid!  Now  men  have  the  most  ornaments  and  rest  longer 
under  the  trees!" 

A  woman  burst  into  laughter.  "Mao-Tan  knows  that 
that  is  so!" 

But  Marzumat  spoke  again.  "Men  take  other-men. 
But  women  have  not  taken  other-women.  Now,  to-day, 
shall  men  lay  hands  upon  women  and  cry,  'Our  prize  and 
our  riches'?" 

"If  we  took  them,  O  Marzumat,  O  women,  did  we  not 
take  them  for  you?  It  is  your  bidding  that  they  will  do! 
They  are  your  prize  and  your  riches!  Take  them  now,  and 
is  it  not  as  if  you  had  taken  them  yonder"  —  he  gestured 
with  his  spear  toward  the  purple  mountain — "taken 
them  yonder  yourselves,  and  brought  them  to  the  valley?" 

"What  you  say  is  true,  O  Saran!" 

The  women  behind  her  echoed,  "It  is  true."  If,  then, 
it  was  true,  and  if  Mao-Tan  was  not  jealous  for  women? 
.  .  .  Ornaments  were  desirable,  and  ease  from  work  was 
desirable  —  riches  were  desirable  —  and  power  —  power 
more  than  anything  was  desirable!  .  .  .  The  soul  of  Mar 
zumat  inclined  toward  service  from  those  other-women. 


72  THE  WANDERERS 

"They  are  a  gift!"  said  Saran.  "If  Mao-Tan  is  not 
angry,  why  should  Marzumat  be  so?" 

Why  indeed?  Marzumat  lifted  her  hands.  "I  do  not 
know.  —  Where  are  the  children  of  these  women?" 

"Not  all  had  children.  —  These  people  are  other-group 
people.  In-Tan  does  not  care  for  them  —  Mao-Tan  does 
not  care  for  them!  The  women  are  yours.  We  only  took 
them  for  you.*" 

The  day  was  bright  and  sunny,  the  valley  a  cheerful 
green.  The  men  were  back  from  danger  with  victory.  The 
valley  had  new  wealth;  every  one  wanted  to  be  rejoic 
ing,  to  be  counting  the  goods.  .  .  .  The  twelve  other-group 
women,  young  women  and  women  in  their  prime,  stood  or 
crouched,  sullen  a  nd  vengeful  in  their  bonds.  Only  one  spoke. 
"May  our  gods  slay  your  gods!  May  our  gods  kill  and 
devour  your  children!  Vile,  vile,  —  you  are  vile  and  your 
gods  are  vile!" 

Anger  broke  against  her,  anger  of  women  and  of  men. 
She  had  cried  out  loudly.  Moving  as  she  did  out  of  the 
cluster  of  her  fellows,  she  had  come  to  face  Marzumat  and 
the  children  of  Marzumat.  Her  arms  being  bound  she 
could  not  gesture  with  hand  or  finger.  But  she  jerked  her 
head,  and  her  eyes  burned  toward  those  she  fronted. 
"Mo-Tal  hear  me!"  she  cried.  "Slay  their  gods  and  them! 
Mo-Tal!  Mo-Tal!  Slay  their  children!" 

Marzumat  grew  all  red.  Her  brows  drew  together,  a 
vein  in  her  forehead  swelled,  her  nostrils  widened,  her 
teeth  were  uncovered,  and  her  dark-red  hair  appeared  to 
bristle.  She  stood  for  a  moment  tense  and  still,  then,  mov 
ing  forward,  she  struck  the  mountain  woman  a  blow  that 
brought  her  to  the  earth.  "Mao-Tan  turn  your  talk  upon 
yourself  1" 


PROPERTY  73 

The  valley  women  behind  her  laughed  with  anger,  and 
also  now  with  willingness  to  triumph.  "Their  gods  are  not 
strong  like  our  gods!  They  can  do  naught!  —  Let  us  keep 
them  and  make  them  work!" 

"  Agreed !"  said  Marzumat,  the  red  yet  in  her  face  and 
the  vein  showing  in  her  forehead. 

The  lambing  season,  the  spring  season,  the  season  of 
fresh  green  and  of  birds  that  sang  from  every  flowering 
bush  passed  into  a  summer  hot  and  dry.  The  stream 
shrank  to  a  silver  thread,  the  flocks  found  but  parched 
herbage.  Sometimes  clouds  came  up,  but  they  never  over 
spread  the  blue  vault.  They  rolled  away,  and  the  earth 
again  lay  bare  beneath  the  sun.  The  sun  bleached  the  huts, 
turned  brown  the  growth  upon  the  hillsides,  and  the  stand 
ing  trees.  The  herdsmen  went  afar  with  the  bands  of  the 
four-footed.  The  bondwomen  carried  water  over  the  wide, 
pebbled  stretch  from  which  the  stream  had  gone,  or  kneel 
ing  before  hollowed  stones,  beat  and  ground  the  corn  into 
meal.  The  weather  made  a  fever  in  the  blood.  It  was 
weather  in  which  effect  followed  like  a  hound  at  the  heels 
of  cause. 

A  woman  stood  in  the  doorway  of  one  of  the  huts.  She 
looked  at  the  grinding  women,  but  looked  somewhat  ab 
sently.  It  was  not  a  novelty  now  —  other-group  women 
grinding  the  valley  corn !  Presently,  however,  she  remarked 
an  absence.  "Where  is  Gilhumat?" 

A  woman  looked  up  from  the  grinding,  shaking  elf- 
locks  from  her  eyes.  "Endar,  the  black-bearded,  shot 
an  arrow  at  a  great  bird.  The  bird  fell  over  the  hill-top. 
Endar  bade  Gilhumat  stop  her  grinding  and  go  find  the 
bird." 


74  THE   WANDERERS 

The  woman  in  the  doorway  turned  her  head  over  her 
shoulder.  "Marzumat,  come  hither!" 

Marzumat  came  out  of  the  dusk.  "Endar,"  said  the 
first  woman,  "shot  a  bird  and  it  fell  over  the  hill-top. 
Endar  bade  Gilhumat  stop  her  grinding  and  go  find  the 
bird!" 

"Where  is  Endar?" 

"Lying  under  the  tree  yonder.  —  There  is  Gilhumat 
now!" 

They  watched  Gilhumat  coming  down  the  hillside.  She 
bore  upon  her  shoulders  a  large  bird,  its  plumage  showing 
copper  hues  in  the  sun.  Marzumat  looked  at  her  with  her 
brows  knitted,  her  lips  parted.  Gilhumat  approached  the 
level  ground,  came  upon  it,  and  to  the  tree  under  which 
Endar  had  stretched  his  length.  She  lowered  the  bird  from 
her  shoulder  and  it  lay  motionless  beside  the  war-man. 
Gilhumat  returned  to  her  grinding. 

The  woman  with  the  dark-red  hair  breathed  quickly. 
Leaving  the  doorway  she  moved  through  the  beating  sun 
to  the  tree  where  lay  Endar.  "Endar!" 

Endar  sat  up.   "What  is  it,  O  Marzumat?" 

"When  did  it  begin  with  valley  people  that  a  man,  kill 
ing  meat,  can  send  a  woman  to  bring  in  that  bird  or  beast? 
I  ask  you  when,  Blackbeard?" 

Blackbeard  scratched  his  head.  "I  was  asleep,  O  Mar 
zumat! —  It  was  not  a  freewoman,  but  a  bondwoman." 

"Bondwomen  are  ours,  not  yours!  —  O  Mao-Tan!  a 
woman  to  be  bidden  by  a  man  to  do  his  work  and  save  him 
trouble !  The  sky  will  fall !  If  it  falls  or  not,  O  Endar,  do  that 
again  and  valley  women  will  deal  with  you!" 

Saran  appeared  beside  them.  "She  is  angry,"  explained 
Endar,  "because  I  bade  one  of  those  mountain  women  do 


PROPERTY  75 

a  small  thing!  War-men  may  bring  the  meat,  but  they  must 
not  put  hand  in  the  pot!" 

The  outer  corners  of  his  eyes  moved  up,  his  white  teeth 
flashed,  he  laughed  and  stretched  his  arms.  The  huge 
muscles  showed.  * 

Marzumat's  eyes  narrowed.  "My  heart  will  not  be 
heavy,"  she  said,  "when  Mao-Tan  gives  Endar  to  the 
beasts  to  eat!" 

Endar's  laughter  stopped.  He  put  up  his  arm  and  with 
the  fingers  of  the  other  hand  made  a  sign  in  the  air.  "Do 
not  wish  evil  upon  me!  In-Tan  hear  me  say  it!  I  will  bring 
the  next  bird  myself!" 

The  tree  under  which  he  lay  edged  a  grove  that  stretched 
toward  the  stream.  Marzumat  went  away  into  this  and 
Saran  moved  with  her. 

"What  harm,"  said  the  latter,  "if  Gilhumat  brought  the 
bird  that  Endar  shot?  Endar  is  next  to  me  in  the  valley." 

His  tone  was  sullen.  Marzumat  stood  still.  They  were 
in  the  heart  of  the  grove,  out  of  earshot  unless  they  raised 
their  voices  loudly.  The  people  of  the  valley  had  hardly 
as  yet  developed  restraint  in  quarrel.  But  something  in 
this  man  and  woman  kept  them  from  shouting  each  at  the 
other,  made  them  prefer  the  space  of  trees  to  the  trodden 
earth  by  the  huts. 

"Ah  —  ah!"  said  Marzumat.  "You  have  not  set  Gil 
humat,  that  is  bondwoman  to  women,  to  do  your  work. 
—  But  you  have  followed  Maihoma  when  she  was  sent 
at  twilight  to  draw  water!" 

Saran's  eyes,  too,  narrowed.  "Is  a  great  war-man  not  to 
speak  to  spoil  that  he  brings?" 

"'Spoil'!  O  Mao-Tan!  I  wish  that  you  had  never 
brought  that  'spoil'!" 


76  THE  WANDERERS 

"We  brought  it.   You  took  it." 

"You  speak  the  truth!  —  Mao-Tan,  Mao-Tan!  I  wish 
that  the  spoil  was  back  in  the  mountain!" 

"Will  you,  O  Marzumat,  send  it  back?" 

Marzumat  stood  with  parted  lips.  Moments  went  by, 
leaves  dropped  in  the  grove,  a  bird  flew  overhead.  Through 
an  opening  between  the  trees  showed  the  huts  and  in  the 
burning  sun  the  bondwomen  grinding  at  the  mills.  .  .  .  The 
woman  who,  the  first  day,  had  called  upon  her  own  god  to 
smite  the  valley  people  and  their  children  was  seen  grind 
ing.  .  .  .  "They  are  useful,"  said  Marzumat.  "But  men 
are  not  to  bid  them  work.  And  men  are  not,  O  Saran,  to 
follow  them  in  the  twilight  when  they  go  to  draw  water!" 

Saran's  tanned  face  paled  which  was  Saran's  way  of 
showing  anger.  "How  will  you  help  that,  red-haired  one? 
You  have  strong  arms.  But  will  you  bind  our  arms  — 
mine  and  Endar's?  Will  the  valley  women  bind  the  war- 
men's  arms  —  set  them  to  keeping  sheep,  away  from  the 
huts  and  the  spoil?" 

Red  flowed  over  Marzumat's  face  and  throat  and 
breast.  "It  is  in  my  mind  that  we  might  bind  many  of 
you!" 

"Not  so  many  that  the  rest  could  not  loose!"  Saran 
stretched  out  his  arm,  regarded  the  play  of  muscle.  "And 
we  have  the  spears,  the  shields,  the  bows  and  arrows!  Men 
are  stronger  to  fight  than  women.  As  for  Mao-Tan  — 
Mao-Tan  is  very  strong,  but  so  is  In-Tan.  In-Tan  has 
grown  as  strong  as  Mao-Tan." 

Out  of  the  blue  had  come  a  flash  and  thunder,  a  shock 
unimaged  before.  Each  stared  at  the  other,  each  pale, 
each  breathing  short.  Marzumat  broke  the  silence.  "  What 
talk  is  this?  The  Ji-Ji,  the  ill  spirits,  have  taken  this 


PROPERTY  77 

place!  .  .  .  And  all  the  same,  I  warn  you,  O  Saran,  not  to 
follow  Maihoma  by  twilight  or  by  sunlight!" 

With  that  she  burst  from  the  grove,  and  went  over  the 
shadeless  earth,  past  the  succession  of  huts,  to  the  place 
where  the  bondwomen  were  grinding  the  corn.  She  spoke 
to  a  woman  grinding.  "You  are  bondwoman  to  women,  not 
to  men!  Why,  then,  did  you  hearken  to  Endar  when  he 
called  you,  or  go  bring  the  bird  he  had  shot?" 

Gilhumat  shook  her  hair  back  from  her  face,  straight 
ened  her  body  from  the  grinding.  "Why?  .  .  .  All  of  you 
are  other-people,  hated  by  Mo-Tal!  Bring  for  Endar?  — 
grind  for  Marzumat?  Where  is  the  difference  to  Gil 
humat?"  Her  features  twitched.  "I  had  rather  bring  for 
men  than  grind  for  women!  Women  —  women  who  bind 
their  own  hands  and  eat  their  own  flesh!  To  do  Endar's 
bidding?  —  to  do  Marzumat's  bidding?  Mo-Tal  hear  me, 
it  hurts  less  to  do  the  first!" 

Marzumat  made  as  if  to  strike  her.  "Do  that  also," 
said  Gilhumat.  "Then  weep  when  evil  comes!" 

The  other  withdrew  her  hand.  "  I  will  not  strike  you  for 
your  words,  Gilhumat!  But  if  you  turn  again  from  the 
task  we  set  to  a  task  a  man  sets,  I  will  strike  you  many 
times !  And  what  I  say  to  Gilhumat  I  say  to  every  grind 
ing  woman!" 

"Say  on,"  said  Gilhumat;  and  with  her  handstone 
crushed  the  grains  of  corn  spread  upon  the  hollowed  sur 
face. 

That  overheated  day  went  by,  another  day,  other  days, 
and  all  were  heated,  with  clouds  that  puffed  up  from  the 
horizon,  deceived  and  went  away,  leaving  the  earth  un 
clad  and  the  sun  a  fire.  A  number  of  valley  women,  work 
ing  in  the  morning  in  a  bean-field,  observed  a  war-man  of 


78  THE   WANDERERS 

no  great  account  take  a  basket  of  fish  from  his  own  shoul 
ders  and  put  it  upon  those  of  a  bondwoman.  That  same  day 
Gilhumat  was  seen  to  answer  Endar's  crooked  finger  and, 
leaving  her  grinding,  carry  for  him  the  bundle  of  osiers  for 
mending  broken  shields.  This  was  told  to  Marzumat,  who 
gave  Gilhumat  the  promised  blows.  But  that  did  not  turn 
away  the  Ji-Ji  from  the  place!  She  left  the  punished 
woman,  foaming  at  her  from  the  ground,  and  as  she  entered 
the  great  hut  saw  in  the  dusk,  in  the  distance,  Saran  with 
Maihoma. 

That  night  there  broke  a  great  thunderstorm.  The  Ji-Ji 
might  be  praised  for  bringing  rain  and  coolness,  but  blamed 
for  the  most  frightening  noises  and  a  sky  of  white  fire! 
For  the  night  the  valley  group  forgot  differences  within 
itself  and  huddled  together  in  mind  as  huddled  the  bodies 
of  the  sheep  in  the  folds.  All  to  be  thought  of  was  the  Ji-Ji, 
and  if  the  upper  spirits  would  hold  back  the  Ji-Ji  from  all 
lengths.  The  Ji-Ji  struck  down  trees  and  smote  one  of 
the  cattle  pens.  The  Ji-Ji  threw  hugely  long,  crooked 
spears  of  white  fire  and  uttered  noises  that  made  women 
and  men  and  children  stop  eyes  and  ears.  Then  at  dawn 
the  Ji-Ji  went  away. 

They  left  the  air  cool  and  bright.  Old  times  seemed  to 
come  back  to  the  valley,  though  new  times  could  not  be 
wholly  killed  either.  Old  times  thought  to-day  that  new 
times  might  be  held  in  bounds. 

Copper  was  wanted  by  the  war-men  for  spear-heads. 
Copper  was  dug  out  of  the  hills  to  the  south.  Half  of  the 
war-men  went  on  an  expedition  to  get  copper.  They  were 
gone  a  week.  Those  who  stayed  at  home  seemed  in  a  quiet 
mood,  in  what,  later  in  time,  might  be  called  a  spiritual 
rnood.  Back  of  the  grove  stood  a  large,  rude,  booth-like 


PROPERTY  79 

structure  appropriated  by  valley  men  to  their  sole  use. 
Here  they  kept  ritual  costumes  and  here  they  feathered 
arrows,  and  adorned  with  red  and  black  pigments  quiver 
and  shield,  and  did  other  work  purely  pertaining  to  great 
hunters  whether  of  beast  or  man.  The  men  who  did  not  go 
for  copper  resorted  to  this  place,  returning  to  the  centre 
at  mealtime.  Day  after  day  they  kept  the  good  mood.  The 
women  heard  that  they  were  working  upon  an  image  of 
In-Tan.  That  seemed  a  good  thing  to  do! 

The  herdsmen  went  afar  with  the  flocks,  the  bondwomen 
did  as  they  were  bid  to  do,  ground  the  corn  and  carried 
the  water.  Certain  of  them,  like  certain  of  the  herdsmen, 
ceased  to  make  protest  outward  or  inward.  Gilhumat  said 
nothing,  but  kneeling,  crushed  the  grains  beneath  her 
handstone.  Maihoma  carried  water  from  the  stream  to  the 
huts.  She  moved  slowly,  with  a  body  stiff  and  sore,  for 
Marzumat,  the  chief  woman,  had  beaten  her  terribly,  as 
she  had  beaten  Gilhumat.  The  valley  women  went  about 
their  manifold  business,  pursued  vocation  and  avocation 
with  a  feeling  of  serenity. 

The  war-men  came  back,  laden  with  copper.  At  the 
same  time  came  again  the  heated  weather.  It  seemed  also 
that  the  Ji-Ji  had  only  been  asleep.  .  .  . 

After  five  days  of  heat  and  Ji-Ji  in  an  awakened  con 
dition,  things  changed  again.  One  of  the  larger  flocks, 
grazing  far  to  the  west,  wandered  out  of  the  valley  upon 
a  plain  behind  the  chain  of  hills.  Here  a  band  of  other-men 
fell  upon  them.  There  had  been  three  herdsmen.  Two 
were  slain.  The  third,  a  swift-foot,  escaping,  won  back  to 
the  valley  with  the  news. 

The  war-men  who  had  gone  for  copper  and  the  war-men 
who  had  stayed  at  home  went  out,  swift-foot,  to  the  west. 


8o  THE   WANDERERS 

out  of  the  valley,  through  the  hills  to  the  plain.  It  was 
a  small,  newly  arrived  group  that  they  found  there,  a 
wretched  cluster  of  huts,  wattle  and  dab,  with  little  more 
in  the  way  of  possessions  than  the  stolen  flock.  But  the 
men  and  the  women  fought  like  wolves.  Even  the  children 
bit  and  tore.  But  the  group  was  very  small. 

The  valley  men  killed  and  those  they  did  not  kill  they 
bound.  Fighting  over,  they  ransacked  the  place,  but 
found  little  spoil  beyond  their  own  recovered  flock.  Only 
in  one  hut  they  found  jars  filled  with  a  fermented  drink  new 
to  them  and  stronger  than  the  drink  the  valley  made. 

The  weather  was  hot  and  dry.  The  mood  of  the  copper- 
digging  and  of  the  making  of  In-Tan's  image  was  passed. 
The  struggle-lust  and  delight  in  killing,  the  more  complex 
delight  of  binding  fast  the  unslain,  was  over  with  for  the 
time.  Victory  had  slaked  thirst  for  revenge.  The  goods 
were  back  with  usury.  The  minds  of  the  valley  men  were 
for  the  moment  empty.  They  sat  upon  the  earth  and  lifted 
to  their  lips  the  jars  of  drink. 

It  seemed  to  the  valley  men  that  their  minds  enlarged. 
There  came  to  them  from  In-Tan,  or  perhaps  only  from 
Ji-Ji,  a  blissful  sense  of  power  and  daring.  They  were  such 
great  war-men! 

The  captives  remained  bound  in  a  space  between  the 
huts.  The  two  or  three  men  among  them  were  those  who, 
in  the  face  of  odds,  had  thrown  down  their  weapons.  The 
rest  —  the  women  —  had  fought  to  the  end,  but  had  been 
encumbered  by  the  children.  Now  the  children  were  dead, 
those  two  or  three  weaker  men  cowed.  But  the  women  re 
viled  from  their  bonds.  It  was  shameful  that  they  should 
thus  revile  such  great  war-men,  favourites  of  gods  and 
Ji-Ji! 


PROPERTY  8 1 

They  looked  at  the  women  over  the  rims  of  the  jars  of 
drink.  They  had  not  looked  so  at  the  women  of  the  purple 
mountain,  the  women  they  had  taken  to  the  women  of  the 
valley  for  a  gift.  But  it  seemed  a  long  time  since  that  day! 
Points  of  view  must  change  in  a  changing  world.  .  .  .  The 
hot  weather  and  the  Ji-Ji  and  the  drink  —  never  the  little 
light  man  in  the  heart  falling  asleep  while  the  little  dark 
man  stirred  and  grew.  .  .  .  The  war-men  began  to  rea 
son,  and  it  seemed  to  them  that  they  reasoned  loftily. 
The  world  was  divided  into  one's  own  people  and  other- 
people  to  whom  nothing  was  owed.  In-Tan  certainly 
and  probably  Mao-Tan  approved  the  division.  Now, 
women  —  own-group  women  and  other-women.  .  .  .  Cer 
tainly  own-group  women  chose  absolutely  when  they 
would  pair  and  with  whom  they  would  pair.  That  was 
order-of-nature.  No  one  questioned  it.  ...  But  these 
other-group  women.  ...  If  you  could  make  war  with 
other-women  —  if  you  could  kill  them  —  if  you  could  bind 
them  to  their  own  door-posts  —  if  you  could  take  them 
for  bondwomen  to  grind  corn  and  carry  water  .  .  .  What 
else  might  you  not  do  if  you  were  sure  that  order-of-na 
ture  would  not  rise  and  blast  you?  Casuists  sprang  up  and 
inner  and  outer  arguing  against  any  such  abstractions  as 
natural  sanctities.  The  war-men  tilted  the  jars  of  drink 
and  found  that  the  liquor  helped  to  free  them  from  ab 
stractions.  It  gave  them  fire,  it  added  height  on  height  to 
their  courage.  It  helped  them  to  questions  such  as  "For 
what,  then,  was  greater  strength  given?"  and  "Do  sancti 
ties  apply  to  the  conquered?"  It  helped  to  the  answers  and 
the  answers  were  according  to  their  desires.  Saran  and 
Endar  were  the  subtlest  disputants.  .  .  .  All  drank  again 
and  the  pitchy  fire  within  broke  its  bounds.  Presently 


82  THE  WANDERERS 

they  were  quite  free  from  abstractions.  They  moved 
toward  the  other-group  women.  .  .  . 

The  hot  night  went  on.  The  day  came  up  in  a  blaze  of 
light. 

The  war-men  quitted  the  plain  and  threaded  the  hills, 
but  they  did  not  carry  these  women  with  them.  The  dead 
and  the  yet  living,  they  left  behind  all  of  this  group.  It  had 
been  a  small,  small  settlement,  seekers  of  fortune  newly 
arrived  in  the  land.  The  valley  men  took  with  them  their 
own  flock  and  the  few  beasts  that  the  cluster  had  owned, 
but  then  these  could  say  naught,  nor  awaken  the  wrath  of 
Mao-Tan.  .  .  . 

They  marched  back  to  the  valley  over  parched  herbage. 
The  tale  that  they  told  to  the  huts  was  of  a  band  of  robbers 
who  had  fought  until  one  and  all  were  slain.  ...  As  to  their 
greeting  from  the  women  of  the  valley,  it  was  cooler  than 
once  it  had  been.  Maihoma  was  dead.  Gilhumat  ground 
corn  in  silence. 

The  weather  was  hot.  Mao-Tan  and  In-Tan  were  per 
haps  somewhere  in  green  meadows  by  waterfalls.  But  the 
Ji-Ji  liked  heat  and  dryness  and  a  feeling  in  the  air  like  a 
singing  bow-string.  The  first  day  and  night  went  by  in  a 
general  taciturnity.  The  second  day  Saran  and  Marzumat 
encountered  under  a  tree  by  the  field  of  corn. 

"Maihoma  that  is  dead  was  a  fair  woman,"  said  Saran. 
He  was  pale  and  his  nostrils  opened  and  shut. 

"So?"  said  Marzumat.    "All  of  us  die,  and  even  fair 


women." 


The  two  stared  each  at  the  other.  The  sky  like  fire,  and 
the  Ji-Ji  active,  and  man  and  woman  at  odds.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  held  quiet.  Most  of  the  men  went  to  the 
booth  behind  the  grove.  Endar,  going,  said  to  women  in 


PROPERTY  83 

the  bean-field  that  In-Tan's  image  occupied  them.  He 
said  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  great  In-Tan,  twice  as  tall  as 
a  man.  They  meant  to  set  it  up  in  front  of  the  men's 
booth,  and  it  would  be  a  great  help  in  keeping  women  from 
the  place.  Endar's  black  beard  moved,  and  his  white  teeth 
flashed,  and  his  eyes  crinkled  up. 

Women,  truly,  went  not  to  the  place,  but  two,  passing 
at  no  great  distance,  heard  first  Endar  and  then  Saran 
haranguing,  and  coming  to  the  fields  reported  what  they 
had  heard.  It  had  not  been  much,  a  few  shouted-out 
words,  chance-caught.  "Lesson.  .  .  .  Teach  a  lesson!  .  .  . 
Show  power,  and  then  have  peace!"  The  women  knew  no 
more  than  that  of  the  harangue.  It  was  to  be  presumed 
that  the  men  were  talking  of  raid  and  foray  against  other- 
people. 

That  day  passed.  The  next  day  all  the  war-men  went 
early  to  the  grove  and  the  booth.  A  woman,  weaving, 
spoke  to  a  woman  making  baskets.  "When  I  waked  at 
first  light,  the  men  were  taking  spears  and  clubs  to  the 
great  booth.  I  asked  what  they  were  doing  and  they  said 
they  were  going  to  make  a  hunting-dance  before  the  In- 
Tan  they  are  cutting  from  a  tree." 

The  sun  walked  up  the  sky  in  a  dazzling  robe  and  throw 
ing  arrows  of  heat.  Women  were  in  the  bean-field  and  the 
corn-field.  They  wove  at  rude  looms.  With  bone  needle 
and  fibre  thread  they  were  sewing  garments.  They  were 
making  baskets;  they  were  preparing  to  fire  a  rude  kiln  and 
bake  therein  vessels  of  clay.  The  meat  had  been  killed  for 
the  next  meal;  they  had  brought  it  from  the  pens,  they 
were  quartering  and  dressing  it.  They  were  at  work  upon 
this  and  at  work  upon  that,  or  they  were  resting  from  work. 
Some  were  crooning  to  babes.  The  bondwomen  worked 


84  THE   WANDERERS 

without  being  able  to  say,  "Now  I  shall  rest  awhile! "  The 
noise  of  all  their  industries  blended  into  a  steady,  droning, 
humming,  not  unpleasing  sound.  Here  and  there  a  woman 
sang,  and  through  the  whole  fluted  the  voices  of  children. 

A  woman  at  the  loom  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 
"The  men  are  under  the  trees,  dressed  up  to  dance. "  An 
other  looked.  "They  are  coming  from  under  the  trees  — 
that's  a  new  dance!"  A  third,  carrying  a  large  jar,  stopped 
to  look.  "They  have  their  spears  and  clubs.  I  see  Saran. 
He  has  hawk  wings  bound  upon  his  head.  —  Ha,  you 
grinding  women!  They  looked  that  way  when  they  came 
down  upon  your  huts!"  As  she  strained  to  look,  her  grasp 
upon  the  jar  loosened.  It  slipped  from  her  hands  and 
broke  at  her  feet  in  twenty  fragments.  "Mao-Tan!  choke 
that  Ji-Ji!" 

The  women  generally  began  to  observe.  Marzumat 
rose  from  a  stone  beside  a  hut  door.  The  men  left  the 
grove.  The  sun  dazzled  against  their  array  —  she  saw 
Saran  with  the  hawk  wings  bound  upon  his  head.  .  .  . 

Saran  and  Endar  and  all  the  others  came  across  the 
space  between  the  grove  and  the  huts.  They  came  shout 
ing  and  swiftly.  The  women  saw  their  procedure  as  incon 
ceivable;  then,  in  a  moment,  the  inconceivable  became  the 
actual. 

While  the  men  used  their  weapons,  their  spears  and  clubs 
for  advantage,  they  were  not  used  to  the  uttermost.  But 
they  made  for  advantage,  as  did  muscular  strength  and 
training  in  battle,  as  did  organization,  as  did  prepared  at 
tack!  Even  so,  there  was  for  a  long  time  breathless,  sway 
ing  struggle.  The  women  were  not  weak-thewed,  and  be 
hind  them  stood  ancient  powers  of  combat.  Furious  anger 
sustained  them  against  the  valley  men.  Man  and  woman, 


PROPERTY  85 

old  kindnesses,  old  unities,  were  forgotten.  All  grudges 
were  remembered,  all  separatenesses.  They  wrestled,  they 
fought,  and  around  all  their  own  noise  rose  the  crying  of 
children. 

The  war-men  had  strong  advantage,  and  they  had 
swelled  their  numbers  by  the  herdsmen.  A  woman  and 
man,  wrestling  together,  reeled  near  to  the  eleven  bond 
women  where  they  were  gathered  by  the  grinding-stones. 

The  woman  cried,  panting.  "Gilhumat,  you  and  the 
others  give  help!" 

Gilhumat's  laughter  rose  and  whistled  like  a  storm. 
"Give  you  help?  No!  We  shall  stand  still  and  rest,  O 
women  who  grind  women  like  corn!" 

Marzumat  cried  to  no  one.  She  lifted  a  great  stone, 
struck  Endar  Blackbeard  with  it,  and  stretched  him  at  her 
feet.  Two  war-men  came  against  her,  then  herdsmen  crept 
up  behind  and  seized  her  arms.  Saran  appeared  before  her, 
shaking  his  spear.  She  foamed  at  him  and  his  hawk  wings. 

At  last  there  parted  the  struggling  mass  —  the  men 
flushed  conquerors,  the  women  flung  to  earth,  bruised  with 
clubs,  panting,  beaten.  .  .  .  The  men  produced  a  rite 
which,  with  some  self-pluming,  they  had  devised  and  re 
hearsed. 

Bondmen  drove  toward  the  trodden  space  sheep  from 
the  fold.  Saran,  the  war-head,  Endar  Blackbeard,  and 
other  chief  men  took  bow  and  arrow,  shot  strongly,  and 
brought  this  game  to  earth.  .  .  .  The  men  were  here,  the 
beaten  women  there,  the  slain  beasts  lying  beyond  the  two 
groups. 

Saran  stood  forth  with  Endar  just  behind  him.  "O  val 
ley  women,  war-men  have  been  hunting,  and  are  tired! 
— Go  you  and  bring  in  our  game!" 


CHAPTER  V 

WHAT  *S  IN  A  NAME  ? 

VANA  lay  awake  at  night  pondering  how  to  get  riches 
for  her  children.  Between  the  middle  of  the  night  and 
morning,  not  being  able  to  sleep,  she  rose  and  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  her  house  of  unburned  brick.  Mardurbo,  the 
children's  father,  had  riches,  but  when  he  died,  in  a  world 
where  descent  was  counted  from  mother-side,  his  riches 
would  go  to  his  brother  Kadoumin  and  other  kindred. 
They  would  not  go  to  his  children  because  children  did  not 
take  name  nor  inherit  from  fathers,  but  from  mothers. 
That  was  order-of-nature,  and  accepted  like  the  seasons, 
or  sun  at  day  and  stars  at  night.  When  she,  Vana,  died, 
her  possessions  would  go  to  the  five  children.  Once  they 
would  have  lapsed  to  her  kindred  in  entirety  —  the  five 
children,  her  sisters  and  brothers,  the  children  of  her  sis 
ters,  and  so  on.  But  now  old  usage  would  give  what  she 
left  chiefly  to  her  nearest  kin,  and  they  were  the  children 
of  her  body.  Her  children  would  have  her  riches,  such  as 
they  were,  because  over  the  earth,  in  her  tribe  and  in  all 
the  tribes  she  had  ever  heard  of,  descent  was  reckoned 
from  women.  By  the  same  token  they  would  not  have 
Mardurbo's  wealth. 

It  was  all  right  as  long  as  women  had  in  the  world  the 
most  wealth!  —  If  she  had  much  riches  and  Mardurbo 
little,  she  would  not  be  standing  here  wrinkling  her  brow 
and  not  even  seeing  the  round  moon  behind  the  juniper 
trees  and  the  well  and  the  cluster  of  sheep  astray.  It  was 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  87 

right  enough  where  there  was  equal  wealth.  But  Mardurbo 
was  much  richer  than  Vana  and  growing  richer  all  the 
time.  All  men,  it  seemed  to  Vana,  were  growing  richer 
than  women.  Her  lips  parted.  "They  say  that  once-upon- 
a-time  inside  the  house  was  richer  than  outside  .  .  ." 

She  stepped  without  her  door  upon  the  crooked,  sun 
baked  street  of  the  town  that  spread  around.  Many  small 
houses  of  unburned  brick,  lanes  and  paths,  knots  of  trees, 
rude,  surrounding  wall  of  stake  and  clay,  the  place  lay 
still  in  the  bright  moonlight.  She  looked  at  her  own  house 
where  she  had  left  her  children  sleeping,  and  near  them, 
sleeping  too,  her  three  bondwomen.  Her  house  was  not 
larger  than  another,  but  she  thought  with  satisfaction  of 
the  goods  that  it  contained.  She  had  much  household 
gear  and  garments  and  ornaments.  In  the  moonlight 
she  looked  at  the  bracelets  upon  her  arms.  They  were  of 
silver,  and  her  anklets  were  of  silver.  She  was  a  most 
skilful  weaver,  and  upon  his  next  trading  journey  Mardurbo 
would  take  with  him  certain  webs  and  bring  to  her  in  re 
turn  earrings  and  frontlet  of  gold.  She  knew,  better  than 
any  in  the  town,  how  to  make  rich  patterns  in  her  weaving, 
and  she  had  taught  her  bondwomen.  With  her  work  she 
had  bought  those  women  from  a  trading  band  coming  from 
the  south,  and  now  they  worked  for  her  and  she  sold  the 
cloth  they  made  and  the  finer  stuff  that  she  wove  herself. 
She  was  richer  than  most  women  and  the  knowledge  made 
her  proud.  And  still  Mardurbo  was  the  richest.  And  when 
he  died  all  that  he  had  would  go  to  his  kindred,  and  his 
children  would  have  naught  of  it. 

The  moon  might  have  said  to  her:  "  It  will  be  long  before 
you  die.  You  are  young  yet  —  you  and  Mardurbo."  That 
was  true,  but  often  persons  died  before  they  were  old. 


88  THE   WANDERERS 

Mardurbo  went  afar,  trading  in  towns  afar.  Robber  bands 
might  attack  his  company  —  a  rival  trader  might  creep  in 
and  slay  him  —  he  might  come  to  a  tribe  that  believed  in 
seizing  goods  and  giving  death  in  return  —  he  might  eat  of 
poison,  grow  sick  and  die  —  as  he  crossed  desert  places  a 
lion  might  spring!  He  would  die  and  flock  and  herd  and 
drove,  sheep  and  ass,  ox  and  horse,  and  all  his  bondmen, 
bronze  and  iron  and  silver,  weapons  and  well-made  gar 
ments  and  ornaments  —  all,  all  go  to  his  kindred!  She 
felt  bitter  toward  that  kindred,  and  bitter  toward  Mar 
durbo. 

Especially  she  hated  that  Kadoumin  should  have  Mar- 
durbo's  wealth. 

She  stared  at  the  moon  above  the  juniper  trees.  It  was 
like  a  silver  shield.  She  wished  that  she  had  such  a  shield. 
She  wished  that  she  could  weave  silver  and  gold,  and  pur 
chase  many  more  bondwomen  than  three  or  seven  or  ten, 
and  with  them  weave  further  in  gold  and  silver  and  pur 
chase  more  to  weave  more.  One  field  she  possessed,  and 
she  wished  that  she  might  make  that  one  two  and  then  set 
the  two  to  breeding  fields.  She  wished  for  sheep  and  oxen 
and  wagons,  asses  and  swift  horses  —  wished  to  trade  afar 
like  Mardurbo  and  make  quick  increase.  She  had  in  her 
an  able  trader  —  a  trader  like  Mardurbo.  Vana  drew  a 
sharp  breath.  Win  increase  for  the  name  of  riches  and  for 
the  children  —  for  the  children  —  for  the  children!  So 
they  would  be  great  and  proud  in  the  tribe.  "O  my  chil 
dren!"  she  said;  "Kadoumin  who  is  already  rich  will  reap, 
though  he  has  not  sowed,  while  the  children  of  Mardurbo 
walk  without  the  field.  O  my  children!  the  field  that  I 
sow  for  you  is  not  so  great  —  no,  not  by  many  measures!" 

She  stood  in  the  doorway  until  the  moon  rose  high,  then 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  89 

within  the  house  threw  herself  down  upon  her  bed  of 
dressed  skins  and  strove  to  sleep.  But  it  was  become  an 
obsession  —  that  thought  of  riches.  She  could  not  sleep. 
The  bondwomen  breathed  deep  in  the  inner  room.  A  ray 
of  moonlight  entering  struck  upon  the  looms  where  they 
and  Vana  worked.  Mardurbo  was  away  —  Mardurbo  was 
journeying  toward  a  town  that  would  trade  metals  for 
horses  such  as  Mardurbo  bred,  and  for  weapons  that  the 
men  of  his  tribe  made  and  webs  that  the  women  wove. 
Vana  saw  Mardurbo  journeying.  Ordinarily  her  feeling  for 
him  was  a  curious  one,  half  fond,  half  estranged.  She  di 
vined  that  he  had  for  her  a  like  feeling.  At  times  they 
were  as  close  as  hand  and  hand,  allied  as  two  strings  of 
Saba's  harp.  The  very  next  day  might  fall  a  misliking, 
dark  and  cold  as  iron  in  winter.  Coming  thus,  sometimes 
it  worked  with  one  emotion,  sometimes  with  another. 

The  moon  paled,  the  pink  dawn  came,  the  trees  rustled 
in  the  morning  breeze.  The  town  awoke.  Without  the  wall 
shepherds  and  herdsmen  moved  with  their  charges  far  upon 
the  plain.  The  light  strengthened,  cocks  crowed,  dogs 
barked,  there  arose  spirals  of  smoke,  voices  conversed  and 
called  and  sang.  The  morning  meal  was  toward.  Women 
and  men  renewed  their  work.  Tones  of  children  and  pat 
tering  feet  of  children  made  a  song  of  spring. 

Without  the  wall  spread  fields  of  wheat  and  barley,  of 
millet  and  of  flax.  Women  and  men  went  to  the  fields. 
Outside,  too,  slid  a  slow,  murmuring  brook.  Women 
washed  here,  and  on  the  banks  in  the  sun  women  bleached 
webs  that  women  wove.  And  near  by,  in  a  shady  place, 
they  had  vats  where  they  dyed  their  webs.  Without  the 
wall  was  the  clayey  place  where  bricks  were  made  and 
dried  and  here  also  was  a  rude  rope-walk.  Men  and  women 


9o  THE   WANDERERS 

made  brick,  and  cords  and  rope,  though  more  men  than 
women.  But  within  the  wall  women  moved  in  the  great 
est  number  and  here  the  industries  were  chiefly  theirs. 
And  again,  where  men  worked,  without  wall  or  within 
wall,  they  were,  with  some  exceptions,  the  slower,  the 
gentler,  the  older,  the  less  strong  of  body  among  men. 
These,  and  bondmen,  of  whom  there  were  many.  Gone 
from  the  town  were  trading  bands,  and  a  war-band  raiding 
the  tents  of  trespassers,  and  a  hunting  band.  At  home, 
however,  stayed  Dardin  the  magic-man  and  his  sons,  and 
Saba  the  harp-player,  and  Kadoumin  the  wily,  and  others. 
But  all  the  women  stayed  in  the  town  or  in  the  fields  just 
without  —  the  strong  and  the  young  women  with  the  old 
and  the  weak,  the  skilled  with  the  dull,  the  adventurous 
with  the  sluggish,  those  without  children  with  those  who 
had  children,  branching  natures  with  sheathed  natures, 
travelling  minds  with  rooted  minds.  Kamilil  the  magic- 
woman  said  that  once  women  wandered  abroad  like  men. 
Not  just  like  men,  for  there  were  always  the  children,  but 
yet  wandered  and  hunted  and  fought.  But  few  really 
believed  Kamilil.  As  things  were,  so  must  they  always 
have  been! 

Vana  went  to  see  Bardanin  her  brother.  She  took  with 
her  her  eldest  son,  a  boy  straight  as  a  reed,  strong  as  a 
master  bow,  and  handsome  as  a  deer  of  the  hills.  As  they 
went  through  the  lanes  of  the  town  all  remarked  the  two. 
Vana  herself  had  "looks."  Moreover,  none  failed  of  know 
ing  how  skilful  she  was  and  richer  than  most.  Every  one 
knew  every  one  else,  and  what  they  did  and  how  they 
did  it. 

Bardanin  was  a  hunter.  He  lived  in  a  house  by  the  wall, 
and  he  had  just  returned  with  his  son  Targad  from  hunting 


WHAT'S   IN  A   NAME?  91 

in  the  hills  that  bordered  the  plain.  They  had  brought  two 
antelope  and  had  cast  them  down  upon  the  ground  be 
neath  a  tree.  Vana  found  Bardanin  and  Targad  seated 
beside  the  house  door,  between  them  a  bowl  of  lamb's 
flesh  and  a  platter  of  barley  cakes.  They  welcomed  her 
and  she  sat  down  near  them.  While  they  ate  she  watched 
the  women  of  the  household  lift  and  shoulder  the  game 
beneath  the  tree  and  carry  it  to  the  open-air  place  of  all 
work  behind  the  house. 

Said  Bardanin:  "Hunting  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  — 
Mardurbo  has  not  returned?" 

"No.  He  was  going  to  the  people  between  the  rivers 
and  the  people  by  the  sea.  He  will  gather  handful  and  arm 
ful.  .  .  .  Bardanin,  my  brother,  it  is  hard  that  this  boy  and 
the  four  I  have  left  at  home  will  not  have  Mardurbo's 
wealth  when  he  dies! " 

Bardanin  broke  a  barley  cake.  "The  five  will  have  your 
wealth  —  and  it  is  known  that  you  gather  by  the  hand 
ful!" 

"What  matters  that  when  Mardurbo  gathers  by  the 
armful?  Mardurbo  will  be  the  richest  man  between  the 
hills  and  the  sea.  Why  should  Kadoumin  who  has  twelve 
fields  have  Mardurbo's  wealth?" 

"Kadoumin  is  his  brother." 

"Bardanin,  I  know  that!  But  I  ask  are  not  his  children 
nearer  to  Mardurbo  than  is  Kadoumin?" 

Bardanin  stared  at  his  sister.  He  was  a  great  hunter, 
but  a  slow  mind.  Targad  laughed.  Bardanin  drank  from 
a  pitcher  of  milk,  then  set  the  vessel  down  thoughtfully. 
"Nearer  in  his  liking,"  said  Bardanin.  "Just  as  I  like  Tar 
gad  and  his  brothers  and  sisters  more  than  I  like  my  own 
brothers  and  sisters.  But  if  the  lion  that  we  met  had  slain 


92  THE   WANDERERS 

me  my  goods  would  belong  to  my  kindred.  Targad  and  the 
others  take  their  mother's  goods." 

"You  are  unsorrowing,  Bardanin,  because  you  have  so 
little!" 

"That  may  be  true,"  said  Bardanin.  "When  you 
gather  riches  you  think  more,  but  you  sleep  less." 

"It  is  true  that  I  have  not  slept,"  said  Vana.  "Mar- 
durbo's  riches  should  come  to  Mardurbo's  children." 

"There  are  always  good  reasons  for  things  being  as  they 
are,"  answered  Bardanin,  and  stretched  his  arms,  for  he 
had  lost  sleep  in  the  hills. 

Vana  went  to  see  her  sister  Lonami.  Lonami  lived  in  the 
street  of  the  well,  and  it  being  now  afternoon  the  two,  sit 
ting  upon  the  doorstep,  could  watch  a  procession  of  women 
bringing  pitchers  and  jars  and  water-skins  for  filling  against 
the  night. 

Said  Lonami:  "Have  you  finished  the  web  with  the 
purple  border?" 

"Not  yet." 

"Any  chief  will  give  you  oxen  for  it.  —  I  make  a  pat 
terned  web  myself,  but  it  is  not  like  yours." 

"Lonami,  men  journey  and  make  war.  They  take  all 
manner  of  cattle  and  trade  for  what  they  do  not  take.  The 
sheep  and  cattle,  the  asses  and  horses,  breed  fast,  and  they 
have  great  flocks  and  herds.  Then  they  trade  with  these, 
and  always  it  grows!  Men  say  that  theirs  are  the  metals 
that  come  out  of  the  earth.  How  big  the  earth  is  I  do  not 
know,  nor  when  she  gave  them  the  copper  and  silver  and 
iron!  They  go  to  war  and  bring  back  rich  and  strange 
things  and  many  bond-folk.  A  woman  must  weave  much 
cloth  or  dye  many  webs,  or  make  many  pots  or  baskets, 
or  plant  much  grain  before  she  can  buy  a  bondman  or  a 


WHAT'S   IN   A  NAME?  93 

bondwoman.  Men  grow  richer  than  women,  and  that  to 
me  is  like  a  cloud  in  the  sky  when  the  brook  is  already 
flooding!" 

"It  is  true  enough!"  said  Lonami. 

"I  think  of  my  children!  If  I  die,  what  do  I  leave  them? 
A  field  and  three  bondwomen,  a  house  and  its  gear  and  a 
few  webs  of  cloth!  But  Mardurbo  dies,  and  what  is  not 
taken  by  Kadoumin!" 

"Harran  is  not  rich  like  Mardurbo,"  said  Lonami,  "as 
I  am  not  rich  like  you,  Vana!  Yet  I  would  that  Harran's 
great  bow  and  his  bronze-handled  long  knife  might  go  to 
Eninumo  his  son!  Harran  would  so,  too,  —  and  Eninumo." 

"I  knew  that  you  would  understand!  When  no  one  was 
richer  than  any  one  else,  it  did  not  matter.  But  now  it 
matters  —  if  you  wish  your  children  to  go  fine  in  the 
world!" 

"I  do  not  see  that  anything  can  be  done  about  it,"  said 
Lonami. 

Vana  looked  at  her  out  of  dark  eyes  beneath  dark-red 
hair.  "There  are  long  reasons  why  one  makes  patterns  in 
cloth  that  is  woven  and  one  makes  them  not!" 

That  night  she  watched  the  moon  again.  The  next 
morning  she  went  to  Kadoumin's  house  where  it  was  told 
her  that  Kadoumin  was  in  the  barley-fields.  Vana  betook 
herself  to  the  fields,  moving  swiftly,  with  a  clinking  of 
silver  anklets.  Kadoumin,  mounted  upon  an  ass,  was 
watching  five  bondmen  reaping  the  field  with  sickles  of 
iron. 

"A  bounteous  day,  Vana!"  said  Kadoumin. 

"A  bounteous  to  Kadoumin!"  answered  Vana,  her  eyes 
travelling  down  the  swathes. 

Kadoumin  dismounted  from  his  ass  and  sat  in  the  shade 


94  THE   WANDERERS 

of  a  tree  and  Vana  sat  beside  him.  "  I  had  a  dream  of  Mar- 
durbo,"  said  Kadoumin.  "He  was  by  the  sea  and  he  had 
a  jar  which  he  dipped  into  the  wave.  When  it  was  filled 
he  emptied  it  upon  a  tent  cloth  spread  beside  him,  and  the 
water  was  not  water,  but  earrings  of  gold  and  pieces  of 
silver  as  large  as  your  fist.  It  seems  to  me  a  lucky  dream!" 

"A  lucky  dream  for  you,  Kadoumin,  who  when  Mar- 
durbo  dies  will  get  the  gold  and  silver,  the  tent  cloth  and 
the  jar!" 

Kadoumin  regarded  the  barley-fields.  "I  am  an  older 
man  than  Mardurbo.  He  is  more  like  to  get  my  fields  from 
me.  —  It  is  true,  however,  that  he  trades  in  dangerous 
places." 

"He  has  a  charm  against  deaths.  —  I  was  not  in  earnest 
when  I  said  'A  lucky  dream  for  you!'  for  Mardurbo  is 
marked  for  long  life." 

Kadoumin,  who  ailed  inwardly  and  showed  an  outward 
leanness,  made  a  sign  for  health  that  Dardin  the  magic- 
man  had  taught  him.  As  he  did  so  he  looked  aslant  at  his 
visitor.  "Istara,  Mardurbo's  mother  and  mine,  was  killed 
by  a  falling  beam,  but  Matara,  her  mother,  lived  long,  and 
Matara's  mother,  Innannu,  very  long.  —  It  is  a  good  bar 
ley  year,  Vana  of  the  silver  anklets!  Is  it  a  good  year  for 
weaving  and  for  purple  dyeing?" 

"It  is  good,  Kadoumin.  —  I  have  a  web  with  a  purple 
border  made  like  the  vine,  and  another  with  a  yellow  pat 
tern  like  a  wheel,  and  another  that  is  fine  and  white  as 
mist  over  the  brook.  —  Would  you  have  them?" 

"A  free  gift  or  in  trade,  Vana,  mother  of  the  five  fairest 
children?" 

"Kadoumin,  the  stars  and  next  year  are  very  well,  but 
the  wise  man  considers  the  field  before  him.  —  For  the 


WHAT'S   IN   A  NAME?  95 

three  webs  —  seeing  that  Mardurbo  is  the  younger  man  and 
should  outlive  —  will  you,  witnesses  sitting  by,  give  over 
to  Mardurbo's  children  Mardurbo's  goods  when  he  dies?" 

Kadoumin  took  up  a  stalk  of  barley  and  drew  it  be 
tween  his  lips.  "Mardurbo  is  a  rich  man.  Three  webs,  even 
though  their  like  was  never  seen,  weight  light  against 
sheep  and  oxen  and  Mardurbo's  swift  horses." 

"You  know  that  field  I  have  by  the  brook.  I  would  add 
it  to  the  webs." 

Kadoumin  drew  the  barley  stalk  again  between  his  lips. 
"Why  do  you  consider  the  stars  and  next  year?" 

"I  know  not,  but  I  do.  —  Children,  children  —  men  do 
not  know  how  that  feels!" 

"I  left  the  town  at  first  light.  Perhaps  a  swift  runner 
has  come  with  news  that  the  tribe  by  the  sea  or  a  lion  out 
of  the  forest  has  slain  Mardurbo?" 

"By  Air  the  goddess,  no!"  said  Vana. 

"Then  I  will  think,"  said  Kadoumin,  "of  what  you  say 
until  Mardurbo  returns.  —  Dardin  has  taught  me,  too,  a 
great  spell  that  gives  long  life." 

Vana  in  her  turn  looked  at  him  aslant.  "It  does  not 
show  —  that  spell.  The  webs  are  fair  and  the  field  joins 
yours.  Better  the  lowing  of  one  heifer  before  the  door 
than  the  seeing  of  herds  in  the  clouds  of  the  sky!" 

"I  will  think,"  said  Kadoumin,  "of  what  you  say  until 
Mardurbo's  return.  If  there  were  more  advantage  yet  .  .  ." 
He  seemed  to  fall  to  dreaming.  "Mardurbo,  I  know  not 
why,  is  fonder  of  children  than  of  brothers.  I  have  no 
children  and  so  I  know  not  why.  .  .  .  Mardurbo  might  add 
to  the  webs  and  the  field.  ...  If  all  the  men  in  town  and 
plain  —  and  all  the  women  —  would  agree,  all  men  might 
leave  their  goods  to  their  own  children." 


96  THE   WANDERERS 

Vana  struck  her  hands  together.  "Kadoumin  the  wise! 
I  have  thought  that,  lying  on  my  bed  at  night!  But  I 
thought  that  it  was  my  thought  only,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
too  strange  to  tell!" 

Kadoumin  drew  the  barley  stalk  through  his  hands. 
"The  matter  is  one  of  kindred,  and  there  is  no  rope  like 
kindred,  and  no  bull  with  its  strength!" 

"Nearly  all  have  children.  Children  are  loved  more 
than  are  sisters  and  brothers.  It  is  wise  to  lay  a  gift 
upon  the  ground  if  thereby  you  take  two  from  the 
tree!" 

"I  have  no  children." 

"So  we  make  you  the  webs  and  the  field  and  what  Mar- 
durbo  will  give!" 

Kadoumin  laid  down  the  barley  stalk,  and  the  sun  being 
at  height  and  the  reapers  coming  to  the  tree,  got  slowly  to 
his  feet.  "You  see  much  with  your  eyes,  Vana,  maker  of 
fine  webs!  but  there  is,  in  this  matter,  something  down  the 
lane  and  beside  the  wall.  ...  I  do  not  clearly  see  what  it  is 
myself,  but  it  is  there.  ...  I  shall  go  talk  to  Dardin  the 
magic-man." 

Vana  went  to  Kamilil  the  magic-woman,  taking  with  her 
a  gift.  Kamilil  lived  near  the  gate  in  the  wall,  in  a  very 
clean  house  with  two  daughters  to  care  for  it.  She  smiled 
when  any  one  spoke  to  her  of  Dardin  and  said  that  many 
made  magic,  but  that  few  made  it  well. 

Vana  gave  her  present  of  two  hens  into  the  daughters' 
hands  and  sat  down  at  Kamilil's  feet.  The  daughters  went 
away. 

Kamilil  was  spinning  wool.  "Do  you  come  for  magic, 
Vana,  rich  in  many  ways?" 

"Mother  Kamilil,"  said   Vana,  "mothers  want  more 


WHAT'S   IN   A  NAME?  97 

magic  than  most!  —  I  lie  awake  at  night  to  think  how  to 
make  my  children  rich  and  great!" 

"They  must  do  some  of  that  themselves,"  said  Kamilil, 
and  put  red  wool  upon  her  distaff. 

"Yes,"  said  Vana,  but  still  she  thought  that  she  could 
do  it  for  them.  "Mother  Kamilil,  is  there  a  magic  to  make 
all  men,  no  less  than  all  women,  desire  to  leave  their  goods 
when  they  die  to  their  children?" 

"A  weak  magic  will  do  that,"  answered  Kamilil,  "seeing 
that  in  their  hearts  most  men  desire  it  now." 

"Then  is  there  a  magic  to  make  every  man's  kindred 
ready  to  give  over  claiming  when  he  dies  and  the  children 
stand  forth?" 

Kamilil  span  and  span.  "There  is  the  magic  that  you 
see  that  what  you  do  for  others  others  will  do  for  you." 

"So!"  said  Vana.  "Give  me  a  magic,  Kamilil,  that 
shall  make  all  this  tribe  see  that!" 

Kamilil  leaned  back  from  her  spinning.  "That  is  a 
greater  thing  than  I  thought  you  came  about.  .  .  .  That 
means  to  think  of  many  children  and  many  years  and 
many  men  and  women!" 

"Yes,"  said  Vana.  "How  can  it  hurt  children  to  have 
fathers  as  well  as  mothers  leave  to  them?" 

Kamilil  fingered  the  red  strands.  "Change  spreads.  .  .  . 
When  a  river  is  in  its  bounds  you  know  what  you  have  to  do 
with.  You  say,  'It  waters  this  field  —  it  flows  by  these 
trees.'  Flood  comes  —  that  is,  change  —  and  you  say, 
4 Where  are  its  banks?'  Throw  a  stone  into  a  great  pool. 
A  little  ring  —  a  wider  ring  —  a  wider  yet!  As  great  as  is 
the  pool,  so  far  the  rings  widen.  That  is  change.  .  .  .  There 
is  something  in  this  that  you  talk  about  that  I  do  not  see 
clearly.  To-night  I  will  gather  plants,  and  to-morrow  I  will 


98  THE   WANDERERS 

brew  from  them,  and  in  the  smoke  I  shall  see  —  I  shall  see 
—  I  shall  see  .  .  ." 

Her  distaff  twirled  faster.  "Come  to  me  three  days 
hence,"  she  said,  and  called  to  her  daughters  to  bring 
Vana  honey  cakes  and  wine. 

Vana  went  home  and  brooded  over  what  Kadoumin  and 
Kamilil  had  said.  A  day  and  night  passed  and  she  de 
termined  to  go  to  see  Uduma,  who  lived  by  herself.  That 
was  to  leave  the  town  and  follow  the  brook  until  it  nar 
rowed  and  you  reached  a  cypress  wood.  Vana  tied  a  meas 
ure  of  wheat  in  a  square  of  fine  cloth,  and  taking  a  staff  in 
her  hand  set  forth. 

Uduma  was  one  that  was  held  in  awe.  Vana,  as  she  went 
up  the  brook,  thought  first  of  her  own  fishing  and  the  nets 
she  was  flinging  over  the  future,  then,  the  wood  growing 
deep  and  the  air  darkly  pure,  her  mood  changed.  She 
seemed  to  remember  many  things,  only  they  were  all 
blended,  merged,  fused.  What  came  from  it  seemed  to  be 
a  light-touched  sadness,  a  chained  and  bound  longing. 
Vana  sighed,  and  used  energy  to  overcome  that  mood. 

The  trees  grew  thickly,  the  gliding  water  talked  to  it 
self.  Vana  thought  of  offences  against  gods  and  goddesses, 
sprites  and  ministers.  She  made  in  the  air  Kamilil's  sign 
to  banish  evil  and  beckon  good,  and  pursued  her  journey 
with  a  quickened  step. 

Before  her  broke  a  sunny  space  and  here,  in  the  midst, 
was  the  hut,  round  and  low,  of  Uduma  the  seer,  and 
Uduma  herself  seated  on  a  stone,  and  near  her  an  ewe  and 
her  lamb. 

Vana  stood  still.   "Hail,  Uduma!" 

Uduma  turned.  "Hail,  woman!  Come  within  the  sunny 
ring." 


WHAT'S    IN   A   NAME?  99 

Vana  came,  and  laid  before  the  seer  the  wheat  wrapped 
in  fine  cloth.  "Gift  from  one  who  would  gain  knowledge!" 

"It  is  only  to  be  gained,"  said  Uduma,  "by  those  who 
would  gain  it.  —  The  wheat  is  good  and  the  cloth  is  fine. 
Sit  in  the  sun  and  rest  from  the  shadows." 

Vana  sat,  cross-limbed,  upon  the  short  grass.  Uduma 
became  silent,  and  Vana,  as  was  manners,  held  as  quiet. 
The  sun  poured  down  its  rays,  but  the  dry  and  aromatic 
air  was  in  motion,  and  the  heat  not  oppressive.  The  light 
burned  clear  gold  over  the  open  round,  the  small  hut  and 
the  deep,  surrounding  wood.  Time  passed. 

At  last  said  Uduma  the  seer:  "To  love  children  of  one's 
body  is  well.  To  think  for  children  of  one's  body  is  well. 
To  hold  the  flower  of  the  vine  before  the  eyes  is  well.  But 
it  is  not  well  to  hide  therewith  earth  and  the  ripened  grape, 
the  moon,  the  sun,  and  the  stars." 

"O  Uduma!"  said  Vana,  "we  are  all  flower  of  the  vine 
for  so  many  years  that  we  live!  Will  it  not  be  well  for  all 
to  take  goods  from  our  fathers  as  well  as  our  mothers?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that  it  will  not  be  well.  .  .  .  Observe  my 
ewe  and  her  lamb.  See,  wherever  she  turns,  the  lamb  turns 
with  her." 

Vana  nodded.   "She  is  all  the  lamb's  good." 

"You  say  well.  —  But  now  if  the  ram  came  and  made 
magic  so  that  the  lamb  got  much  good  from  him  and  then 
more  good  and  more?  Would  the  lamb  any  more  look 
wholly  to  the  ewe?" 

Vana  sat  with  an  arrested  look  in  the  sunny  round.  At 
last  she  spoke.  "Fathers  as  well  as  mothers  have  praise 
from  children.  ...  I  do  not  know  —  I  do  not  remember 
—  if  it  was  ever  otherwise." 

"Praise,  but  not  so  great  praise." 


ioo  THE   WANDERERS 

"When  the  people  from  the  hills  came  against  us,  four 
barley  harvests  since,  and  broke  down  the  wall  and  poured 
through  the  ways  and  struck  against  the  houses,  Mardurbo 
fought  mightily  in  our  doorway.  I  also  fought,  but  Mar 
durbo  fought  with  great  blows.  Did  not  the  children 
praise  him  then?" 

"Yes.  Were  the  ram  and  the  ewe  and  the  lamb  together, 
in  a  close  place,  and  there  came  a  dog,  the  ram  would 
fight  mightily,  and  for  the  ewe  and  the  lamb  as  for  him 
self.  And  if  he  is  hurt  the  ewe  will  fight  for  him,  as  always 
for  the  lamb.  And  doubtless  in  its  heart  the  lamb  praises 
the  ram,  and  another  day,  if  there  comes  a  dog  or  a  wolf, 
it  looks  to  the  ram  as  to  the  ewe  to  fight  for  it.  ...  All 
that  is  true,  and  there  is  praise  now  in  the  earth  from  chil 
dren  to  fathers.  But  the  food  is  the  continuing  life,  and 
the  warmth  is  the  continuing  life,  and  the  taking  of  care  is 
the  continuing  life.  .  .  .  The  lamb  turns  with  the  ewe." 

Vana  sat  still.  The  light  came  down  clear  and  dry.  It 
might  be  seen  why  Uduma  liked  this  place.  "If  the  ram 
has  food  to  give,  and  garments  for  richness  and  warmth, 
and  fields  for  gain  and  pleasantness  —  " 

"While  it  is  very  little  the  lamb  will  yet  turn  with  the 


ewe." 


Vana  sat  cross-limbed,  her  eyes  upon  the  earth.  A  great 
bird  passed  overhead;  she  knew  it  by  its  shadow  on  the 
ground.  "This  it  was  that  crossed  Kadoumin's  mind  and 
the  mind  of  Kamilil,  but  neither  could  gain  its  shape!" 
She  sat  still,  in  the  dry  light,  but  she  was  not  wholly  ac 
customed  to  that  light  —  by  no  means  wholly  accustomed 
to  that  light.  Not  even  Uduma  was  that. 

"What  else?"  asked  Vana  at  last,  and  she  spoke  in  a 
dulled  and  weary  voice. 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  101 

"If  the  ram  can  do  all  that,"  said  Uduma,  "if  the  lamb 
at  last  turns  with  him,  then  the  ewe  must  seek  her  gain 
elsewhere." 

Vana  beat  her  hands  together.  "There  is  no  gain  else 
where!" 

"I  have  not  dug  deep  enough  nor  built  high  enough," 
said  Uduma,  "to  find  out  about  that.  And  this  is  all  that 
I  can  tell  you  now  of  the  matter,  for  the  eyes  with  which  I 
see  grow  tired." 

Vana  took  ceremonious  leave  of  Uduma.  She  went  out 
of  the  'still  and  sunny  round  into  the  wood  where  the 
day  murmured  and  was  dim  under  roof,  above  roof,  and 
down  the  stream  where  the  clay  thickened  and  coloured 
the  water.  As  she  went  her  mind  was  torn  within  her,  and 
she  saw,  as  it  were  arising  in  the  wood  before  her,  Mardurbo 
making  wealth,  and  her  own  loom  and  the  web  within  and 
her  field  and  three  bondwomen,  and  afterwards  the  five 
children,  and  how  they  grew,  and  the  little  she  would  have 
for  each.  Vana's  children,  and  they  should  go  in  purple 
through  the  town.  .  .  .  This  talk  of  ewes  and  women  — 
and  who  ever  saw  a  lamb  turn  from  its  dam  or  children 
turn  from  women? 

Mardurbo  —  Mardurbo!  Vana  walked  slowly,  sat  down 
at  last  upon  the  stream  bank.  The  five  bending  toward 
Mardurbo  —  Mardurbo  demanding  from  the  five  since  he 
fought  and  was  strong,  and  besides  was  going  to  make 
them  rich  —  Mardurbo's  favour,  Mardurbo's  disfavour  — 
in  the  children's  eyes  Mardurbo  the  waxing  moon  and  she 
the  waning  —  Vana  drew  sharp  breath,  struck  at  the  air 
with  her  staff.  "Fly,  bad  dream!"  she  said.  But  it  would 
not  avoid  —  it  seemed  to  come  toward  her,  between  the 
trees,  the  strongest  in  fight  and  the  richest  — !  Vana 


102  THE   WANDERERS 

uttered  a  strangling  cry.  "Mardurbo!  I  know  not  if  I  wish 
life  for  you!" 

She  stared  at  the  dark  trees  and  the  dark  places  between 
them.  Slowly  there  rose  in  her  mind  Mardurbo  as  she  had 
known  him  first  —  Mardurbo  and  she  as  striplings  amid 
the  wheat  and  the  vines  —  Mardurbo  before  they  came 
into  the  same  house,  and  afterwards  for  a  time,  before  the 
eldest  boy  was  born,  and  the  two  years  of  her  suckling  him 
—  Mardurbo  before  the  days  of  the  bondwoman  whom  he 
bought  and  to  whom  he  gave  a  house.  .  .  .  Mardurbo  and 
Vana,  striplings  among  the  wheat  and  the  vines.  Slow 
tears  rose  in  Vana's  eyes.  "Mardurbo!  Mardurbo!"  she 
breathed. 

She  took  up  her  staff,  rose  to  her  knees  and  then  to  her 
feet,  and  went  on  down  the  stream  to  the  clay-built  town. 
And  here,  even  outside  the  wall,  she  heard  that  Mardurbo 
had  come  home. 

The  men  who  told  her  exaggerated  the  wealth  Mardurbo 
had  brought.  According  to  them  it  was  exceeding  much  — 
in  metals,  in  cattle  and  bondmen,  in  stuffs  and  weapons 
and  tools  to  work  with,  in  salt,  in  ornaments  of  silver,  and 
all  such  matters!  Mardurbo  had  come  with  a  train  —  now 
the  cattle  were  stalled  without  the  wall,  and  the  other  goods 
heaped  beside  and  within  the  house.  To-morrow  and  the 
next  day  and  the  next  Mardurbo  would  hold  market. 
Horses  were  what  were  wanted  in  exchange. 

Inside  the  wall  Vana  still  heard  of  that  much  wealth  the 
trader  had  brought.  It  seemed  that  the  people  by  the  sea 
had  been  hungry  for  horses.  The  town  was  excited  over 
Mardurbo's  return. 

Approaching  her  own  house,  she  saw  in  the  distance  that 
goods  were,  indeed,  heaped  beside  it  and  before  it,  and 


WHAT'S   IN  A  NAME?  103 

Mardurbo  in  the  midst  of  his  men  directing  the  goods' 
bestowal,  and  children  and  bondwomen  and  a  number  of 
town-folk  watching.  Sound  came  to  her  in  a  gush,  and  a 
perception  as  of  bees  at  work.  Her  hand  closed  hard  upon 
her  staff.  The  honey  —  all  the  honey  —  to  go  to  Ka- 
doumin  and  the  other  kindred! 

The  children  saw  her  and  ran  to  her,  the  bondwomen 
saw  her  and  snatched  up  distaff  or  water-jar.  Mardurbo 
turned  from  sacks  of  salt  and  goods  in  bales  that  the  peo 
ple  by  the  sea  traded  with.  He  came  through  the  press  to 
Vana  as  she  came  through  it  to  him. 

"Ha,  woman!"  cried  Mardurbo.    "I  am  back  alive!" 

Vana  put  her  hands  upon  his.  They  drew  each  to  each, 
with  suddenness  they  embraced.  Each  felt,  each  showed 
a  rude,  a  passionate  fondness.  "Glad  I  am  that  you  live!" 

"I  have  brought  the  fairest  earrings  and  frontlet — " 

Their  hold  each  of  the  other  loosened.  Manners  of  the 
tribe  demanded  restraint  in  the  open  in  love-tokens.  But 
their  faces  still  shone.  Then  the  shining  lessened,  and  there 
dropped  between,  neither  knew  from  where,  the  sundering 
force. 

"Wealth  and  wealth!"  said  Vana.  "Kadoumin  dreamed 
that  he  saw  you  dipping  riches  from  the  sea!" 

"Kadoumin!  ...  I  have  brought  a  gift  for  each  of  the 
children." 

A  bale  threatened  falling.  Mardurbo  lifted  it  on  strong 
shoulders,  bore  it  to  the  room  for  storing  built  beside  the 
main  room.  Bondmen  followed,  carrying  much  goods.  The 
children  chattered  like  monkeys,  the  watching  town-folk, 
men  and  women,  made  admiration  or  offered  help;  over 
the  place  played  red  sunshine  of  the  shutting  day.  Largely 
the  gathered  crowd  were  Mardurbo's  kindred.  Vana  stood 


io4  THE   WANDERERS 

still.  In  times  before  to-day  assuredly  she  would  have  laid 
hand  to  matters  herself,  lifted  and  borne  and  called  her 
bondwomen  to  the  task.  But  now  she  saw  Vana  and  her 
children  one  kindred,  and  Mardurbo  with  Kadoumin 
and  the  others  one  kindred,  and  between  strangeness. 
She  would  not  help  put  away  Kadoumin's  goods  —  but 
lightly  she  would  have  helped  to  put  away  goods  of  the  five 
children!  Desire  of  riches  that  had  trembled  toward  de 
parture,  came  back  and  held  her  with  full  force.  Standing 
in  the  bronze  light,  she  knew  covetousness  —  she  knew 
hatred  of  Kadoumin  and  the  other  kindred  —  knew  for 
that  moment  hatred  of  Mardurbo.  Stronger,  stronger! — • 
richer,  richer!  —  and  how  could  she  take  the  children  with 
her,  going  trading  to  make  them  rich? .  .  .  Those  who 
spoke  to  her  she  answered  shortly,  standing  in  a  brown 
study,  then  went  into  the  house  and,  calling  her  women, 
fell  to  preparing  supper. 

The  meal  was  over.  Mardurbo's  followers  gone  away, 
the  precious,  the  weighty  things  that  he  had  brought  home 
bestowed  against  further  trading.  Reclined  upon  an  ox- 
skin  spread  without  the  door,  Mardurbo  watched  the  five 
children  at  play  with  other  children  in  the  pinky,  twilight 
street.  They  ran  up  and  down,  they  joined  hands  and  swung 
in  circles,  they  played  at  hunting  and  at  war,  stalking  and 
capturing  one  another.  Then  they  played  the  tribe  by  the 
sea  and  the  tribe  in  the  hills  and  Mardurbo  with  his  horses 
trading  from  the  plain  to  the  hills  and  the  sea.  The  chil 
dren  of  Vana  and  Mardurbo  claimed  to  play  Mardurbo, 
It  seemed  that  their  claim  was  good.  But  other  children 
set  up  shrill  objection,  put  in  an  opposing  claim.  Mar 
durbo  was  their  kinsman.  Contention  arose.  "Mardurbo 
is  our  father!" — "Mardurbo  is  our  kin!"  —  "He  lives 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  105 

with  us!"  —  "Ho!  If  he  and  your  mother  part  he  will 
come  back  to  grandmother's  house!"  —  "He  brought  us 
presents!"  —  "Ho!  your  presents  are  only  little  bits!  All 
the  big  things  belong  to  kin!  We've  got  horses  and  bond 
men  and  salt  and  copper  and  silver!"  —  "Anyhow,  we're 
Mardurbo!"  —  "No,  you  are  n't!  We're  Mardurbo!" 

Mardurbo  turned  on  his  ox-skin.  "What  does  a  man 
toil  and  journey  for?  Kadoumin,  and  the  children  of 
Istara?" 

Twilight  deepened,  earth  faced  night.  The  town  went 
to  sleep  —  all  save  prowling  dogs  and  winged  or  creeping 
things  of  the  dark,  and  human  folk  in  pain  of  body  or  of 
mind.  Vana  and  Mardurbo  lay  awake.  They  heard  the 
children's  breathing  and  the  breathing  of  the  bondwomen 
and  of  Mardurbo's  men  who  slept  at  the  door  of  the  treas 
ure  chamber.  Mardurbo  turned  again. 

Vana  spoke.  "Did  you  have  your  fill  of  sleeping  between 
here  and  the  sea?" 

"I  slept  little  upon  this  journey.  There  were  many  to 
watch  against." 

Vana  rose  from  that  couch  of  skins.  "Whether  one  goes 
or  stays  there  are  many  to  watch  against.  ...  A  lion  and 
a  lioness  and  their  cubs  .  .  ." 

"What  put  that  into  your  heart?"  asked  Mardurbo. 

"I  do  not  know.  .  .  .  How  large  is  the  heart,  seeing  that 
everything  finds  room?"  She  moved  from  the  couch  to 
the  door,  stood  upon  the  threshold  and  looked  at  the  town 
asleep. 

Mardurbo  followed  her.  "I  want  to  talk.  In  there  the 
others  will  waken." 

Vana  let  fall  behind  them  the  mat  that  made  the  door. 
She  sat  down  upon  the  threshold  step,  and  Mardurbo 


io6  THE   WANDERERS 

beside  her.  The  breathing  was  now  withdrawn.  In  front 
of  them  lay  the  hot,  still  night  with  nothing  moving  save 
a  dog  by  a  distant  wall. 

"I  should  have  drunk  sweetness  upon  this  journey," 
said  Mardurbo,  "  but  instead  I  have  drunk  bitterness.  — 
Why  should  not  my  riches  go  to  my  children?" 

"Why  not?  Why  not?" 

"Saba  the  harp-player  says,  and  all  men  know,  that 
women  are  seen  to  be  mothers  of  their  children.  But  men 
are  not  seen  to  be  fathers.  So  we  count  from  our  mothers, 
knowing  that  we  are  theirs.  Men  must  take  it  from  women 
that  they  are  fathers.  It  is  l faith/  like  *  faith'  when  we  ask 
from  the  Powers." 

"Do  you  not  know  that  the  five  are  yours  and  mine? 
They  are  yours  and  mine." 

"I  have  ' faith,'"  answered  Mardurbo. 

"It  is  evil  for  Kadoumin  and  for  Istara  and  her  children 
to  have  wealth  that  should  be  our  children's!  How  to 
change  that  —  how  to  make  magic  that  shall  change 
that—!" 

"I  know  a  way,"  said  Mardurbo.  "It  came  to  me  in  the 
desert  while  I  lay  awake.  Just  like  a  falling  star  it  fell  into 
my  heart!" 

"What  is  it,  Mardurbo?  What  is  it?" 

Mardurbo  looked  at  the  sky  and  around  at  the  silent 
town.  He  made  upon  the  earth  at  his  feet  one  of  Dardin's 
signs.  He  was  a  bold  man,  but  change  is  a  difficult  thing  in 
the  world,  and  what  is  now  has  all  the  honour  and  observ 
ance!  "Count  kindred  another  way,"  said  Mardurbo,  and 
he  dropped  his  voice  yet  lower  and  looked  somewhat  fear 
fully  at  his  companion.  "Have  a  great  council  of  the  tribe 
and  determine  it!  Let  children  come  into  father's  kindred." 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  107 

"How  can  that  work?"  asked  Vana.  "How  can  they 
be  reckoned  of  fathers'  kin  when  already  they  are  of 
mothers'  kin,  and  the  two  kins  are  separate?" 

Mardurbo  traced  another  sign  upon  the  earth.    "Take 
them  from  mother-kin  and  put  them  in  father-kin." 
Vana's  lips  moved.    "Is  that  your  way?" 
"It  came  as  though  there  were  light  all  around  it  —  or 
as  though  you  ate  up  the  desert  on  the  swiftest  horse.   It 
seemed  so  hard,  and  then  it  seemed  so  easy!  Everything  to 
stay  as  it  is,"  said  Mardurbo,  "save  that,  after  the  council, 
children  take  name  from  father-side.    Name  makes  kin 
dred  —  when  men  die  kindred  take  their  goods." 

Vana's  breath  came  quick  and  thin.  "Do  you  think  the 
folk  will  agree  to  that?" 

"Men  will  agree  quickly,"  said  Mardurbo  the  trader- 
"The  men  —  the  men!  But  the  women  — " 
"Men  grow  richer  than  women,  for  the  outside  is  bigger 
than  the  inside  of  the  house.  You  wish  the  five  to  have  my 
riches  when  I  die.    Lonami  wishes  Eninumo  to  have  the 
goods  of  Harran.    Innina  wishes  her  three  to  have  the 
flocks  of  Akarnad.    It  will  be  so  with  other  women." 
"Children  to  go  from  mother-kin  into  father-kin — " 
"Still  they  would  be  your  children  —  as  now  they  are 
my  children  —  and  yet  I  have  no  honour  from  them,  and 
when  my  kindred  gather  to  a  feast  they  come  not  with 
them!" 

"/  give  them  no  longer  my  name,  nor  the  name  of  my 
mother/" 

Mardurbo  was  deep  in  love  with  the  plan  that  had  fallen 
like  the  shooting  star.  He  struck  the  threshold  stone. 
"What  harm  to  women  if  they  take  name  from  fathers 
instead  of  from  mothers?" 


io8  THE   WANDERERS 


"If  they  take  name  from  men!" 

"To  this  night,"  said  Mardurbo,  "men  have  taken  name 
from  women." 

"I  go  to  see  Kamilil,"  said  Vana. 

She  went  when  the  sun  was  pushing  above  the  plain. 
Kamilil  was  already  twisting  red  wool,  while  in  the  rear  of 
the  house  the  daughters  sang  like  birds.  "  Mother  Kamilil," 
said  Vana,  "what  did  you  see  in  the  smoke  of  the  plants 
you  gathered?" 

"I  saw,"  said  Kamilil,  "that  there  is  much  restless 
ness  in  life,  and  that  when  gain  perches  on  one  person's 
shoulder  it  has  not  come  out  of  nothing,  but  has  flown 
from  the  shoulder  of  another.  .  .  .  Cease  thinking  of  great 
riches  for  your  children  after  you." 

"That  I  cannot  do,"  said  Vana.  "My  children  are  my 
dear  life." 

"Then  the  bird,"  said  Kamilil,  "will  fly  from  your 
shoulder  to  Mardurbo's  shoulder.  —  And  that  is  all  that 
I  saw  in  the  smoke  from  the  plants." 

Vana,  returning  home,  found  Mardurbo  and  the  bond 
men  establishing  booths  for  the  market.  Ordinarily  she 
would  have  given  great  help,  but  to-day  there  was  ab 
straction  in  her  gaze. 

Mardurbo  came  to  her  where  she  stood.  "Every  one 
will  be  here  to  trade  or  to  look.  I  will  speak  to  the  elders 
about  the  council." 

"Say  nothing  until  I  return,"  said  Vana.  "I  am  going 
to  see  Uduma  the  seer." 

She  left  the  town  wall  behind  her,  and  followed  the  wind 
ing  of  the  brook,  walking  with  a  silver  tinkling  of  her  an 
klets.  Presently  she  found  again  the  clear,  sunny  space,  and 
Uduma  carding  wool. 


WHAT'S   IN   A   NAME?  109 

"Hail,  Uduma!" 

"  Hail,  woman-who-was-here-yesterday ! " 

Vana  sat  upon  the  grass  before  Uduma.  "Uduma, 
Uduma!  the  lamb  must  take  the  name  of  the  ram  as  well 
as  his  riches!" 

Uduma,  who  had  put  by  her  carding  sat  with  her  eyes 
upon  a  bright  place  in  the  sky.  She  sat  very  still,  her  body 
unbowed,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  "Uduma,  Uduma! 
if  the  lamb  learns  to  say,  *  I  am  son  or  daughter  of  the  ram ' 
—  and  thinks  nothing  of  the  ewe  — " 

Uduma  still  looked  at  the  bright  sky.  Time  went  by. 
The  place  was  golden,  warm  and  dry,  and  possessed  an 
aromatic  breath.  The  breath  seemed  to  come  slow-drawn, 
and  Uduma's  breath  the  same.  At  last  she  spoke.  "I  see 
what  I  had  not  seen.  .  .  .  For  a  long,  long  time,  for  a 
long,  long  time,  the  lamb  thought  all  of  the  ewe  and  noth 
ing  of  the  ram.  .  .  .  The  wind  goes  to  and  the  wind  goes  fro. 
The  summer  is,  and  then  the  winter  is.  The  day  is,  and 
then  the  night  is.  The  winter  is,  and  then  the  summer  is. 
The  night  is,  and  then  the  day  is." 

"The  two,"  said  Vana,  "are  evened  in  night-and-day 
and  summer-and-winter." 

"There  is  more  wisdom  in  you,"  said  Uduma,  "than 
shows  every  day!  Why  do  you  give  milk  to  pride  and 
greed?" 

"I  do  not  so.    I  give  milk  to  my  children." 

"Pride-for-children  and  greed-for-children  are  long 
names  for  short  things." 

Vana  with  her  long,  embrowned  fingers  moved  her  silver 
anklets.  "O  Uduma,  will  not  Mardurbo  remember  that, 
for  the  children,  I  let  the  council  be  called,  and  said  in  my 
turn,  ' Change  the  old  ways'?" 


no  THE   WANDERERS 

"Mardurbo  —  Mardurbo!  Look  in  your  own  heart  for 
Mardurbo  and  his  thoughts!" 

"Will  we  make  evil,  O  Uduma,  changing  the  old?  If 
there  were  evil  to  tribe-women,  would  Istal,  the  Mother 
of  the  gods,  let  me  make  it?" 

"Look  in  your  heart  for  tribe-women,  and  look  in  your 
heart  for  Istal!  .  .  .  You  will  do  what  you  will  do,  and  there 
will  come  out  of  it  what  there  will  come  out  of  it.  As  for 
me,  I  am  a  watcher,  but  my  eyes  are  not  very  good.  I  do 
not  know  what  the  gods  wish  —  And  now  I  am  tired,  and 
I  will  speak  no  more,  woman-who-came-yesterday!" 

Vana  left  the  golden-lighted  circle  and  went  through  the 
dark  wood,  down  the  falling  stream.  As  on  yesterday  she 
had  thought  of  Mardurbo,  so  to-day  she  thought  of  Mar 
durbo.  But  first  she  said,  and  said  it  thrice,  "I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  I  shall  be  less  in  the  world  by  this  one  and  that 
one  saying  'Mardurbo's  children!'  —  Who  is  it  that  knows 
not  that  they  are  my  children?  —  It  will  be  nothing  but 
a  saying!"  For  since  yesterday  she  was  the  more  set  to 
gain  for  the  five  those  riches  from  the  seashore  and  the 
country  between  the  hilis. 

Mardurbo  —  Mardurbo!  To-day  she  felt,  affection  for 
Mardurbo.  She  was  glad  that  no  lion  had  felled  him  with 
a  stroke,  and  no  serpent  crept  into  his  tent,  and  no  man-foe 
sent  arrow  against  him.  Mardurbo  loved  the  children  as 
she  did,  and  he  would  make  for  them  wealth  and  more 
wealth.  It  was  not  much  of  a  price  to  pay  —  to  say  "son 
of  Mardurbo  —  daughter  of  Mardurbo ! "  Especially  when 
it  would  be  naught  but  a  saying.  The  tribe  would  con 
tinue  to  know  that  Vana  had  borne  them  in  agony,  had 
suckled  them  and  wrought  for  them,  day  and  night.  Mar 
durbo  ,  ,  .  Mardurbo!  To-morrow  she  might  again  feel 


WHAT'S    IN   A   NAME*  in 

anger  against  him,  desire  to  see  him  gone,  and  care  not  for 
his  dangers.  To-day,  all  was  as  oil  and  wine.  The  will  of 
Vana  was  set  to  obtain  that  turning  of  wealth  from  Kadou- 
min  and  from  Istara  and  her  children  to  the  five  in  the 
house  of  the  loom.  To  feel  for  any  cause  violence  and  bit 
terness  against  Mardurbo  would  make  difficulties  more  dif 
ficult,  and  therefore  she  felt  it  not. 

The  sun  was  in  the  west  when  she  reentered  the  town, 
and  the  greater  part  of  the  town  hovered  yet  about  Mar- 
durbo's  market.  The  town  fed  desire  with  strange,  pre 
cious  goods,  and  gave  to  Mardurbo  in  exchange  home 
made  matters.  Home-made  matters  seeming  nothing  like 
so  precious,  the  town's  giving  outweighed  its  taking.  Mar 
durbo  would  have  much  of  fine  and  precious  with  which  to 
feed  the  desire  of  the  people  by  the  sea  and  the  people  be 
tween  the  rivers,  who  in  turn  would  outweigh  that  much 
with  their  homely,  home-furnished  matters.  So  Mardurbo 
prospered.  And  much  to  his  liking  were  the  horses  that  the 
plain  now  gave  him. 

So  he  knew  satisfaction,  and  the  men  and  women  of  his 
town  knew  satisfaction.  A  rich  and  expansive  mood  per 
vaded  the  place  of  the  booths.  Except  for  a  few  scattering 
thrusts  trading,  that  had  gone  on  since  dawn,  was  over. 
Covetousness,  fed,  rested  with  sleepy,  half-shut  lids. 
Minds  that,  as  each  had  thought,  had  shrewdly  bargained, 
relaxed  tension.  Saba  the  harp-player  sat  against  a  wall 
and  made  music  to  tread  the  harp's  stretched  chords.  Dar- 
din  the  magic-man  had,  in  return  for  his  spells  bringing 
health  and  successful  trading,  a  great  dish  of  bronze.  With 
it  in  his  hands  he  looked  at  the  noble  sickle  that  Kadoumin 
the  wily  had  bought  with  a  brown  foal.  Bardanin  the 
hunter  had  shoes  that  would  tread  thorns  like  gods,  and 


ii2  THE   WANDERERS 

Targad  had  a  painted  quiver  and  baldric.  Harran  had  a 
silver  armlet.  Lonami  had  given  her  greatest  web  for  an 
ewer  and  dish  of  well-wrought  metal,  Istara  had  an  ivory 
spindle  made  by  the  people  between  the  rivers,  and  the 
daughters  of  Kamilil  had  garments  dyed  and  fashioned  by 
the  seashore  folk.  The  town  made  a  deep,  contented,  mur 
murous  sound. 

Mardurbo  rested  near  Saba  the  harp-player.  He  looked 
at  the  horses  in  the  staked  enclosure  the  bondmen  had 
made,  and  he  thought  of  other  steeds  that  he  was  to  ex 
amine  in  the  morning  before  the  change  goods  left  his 
hands.  The  people  by  the  sea  were  lean  with  hunger  for 
horses.  He  looked  at  a  row  of  new  bondmen,  and  he  looked 
at  goods  that  his  town  made,  piled  like  tall  anthills.  Mar 
durbo  sat  embrowned,  weary  and  satisfied,  still  observed 
by  the  town,  granted  to  be  the  greatest  trader,  and  good 
beside  in  war  or  council. 

Vana,  making  her  way  to  him,  met  likewise  with  ob 
servance.  Vana  and  Mardurbo  .  .  .  Mardurbo  and  Vana! 

Vana  stood  beside  him.  "Let  us  speak  now  to  the  elders, 
and  let  them  call  the  folk  to  council  to-morrow."  Her  hand 
rested  on  the  head  of  the  eldest  of  the  five,  the  boy  straight 
as  a  reed,  strong  as  a  master  bow,  and  handsome  as  a  deer 
of  the  hills.  "Mardurbin,  when  he  goes  trading,  shall  have 
somewhat  to  begin  with!" 

They  spoke,  and  when  men  and  women  understood  the 
subject-matter  there  lacked  no  interest.  The  grass  was 
dry  fuel  for  the  dropped  fire. 

There  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  town  a  council-tree, 
huge  of  bole,  many-branched  and  forest-leaved.  Beneath 
it  the  tribe  had  held  council  since  the  days  of  the  far-back 
mother  from  whom  it  took  origin  and  name.  The  day  that 


WHAT'S   IN   A  NAME?  113 

followed  the  market  they  held  the  council  here.  The 
elders  sat  around  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  about  these 
the  chief  men  and  women  and  the  others  in  their  degrees 
made  larger  and  larger  rings. 

All  the  chief  men  and  women  spoke,  and  some  spake 
twice.  All  day  that  council  held,  a  council  to  be  marked 
by  the  tribe,  in  their  annals  of  the  earth,  with  a  stone  and  a 
pillar  and  an  altar  smoke.  When  it  began  the  eastern  side 
of  the  tree  was  golden,  when  it  ended  the  western. 

It  ended  with  choice  made,  with  a  great  number  crying 
out  for  the  choice  that  was  made.  A  few  voices  differed  from 
the  most,  but  faintly  and  more  faintly,  until  they  were  like 
distant  cicadas.  The  earth  was  bondwoman  to  the  voice 
of  the  many.  At  the  close  of  day  the  law  of  this  tribe  was 
changed.  .  .  .  When  the  eastern  side  of  the  tree  was  gold 
there  held  the  ancient  mother-right;  when  the  western  side 
was  gold  there  came  upon  the  plain  father-right. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  PROPHET 

HALMIS  liked  to  sit  by  the  river,  among  reeds  or  beneath 
willows,  narrow-leaved  and  moving  with  the  slenderest 
breath  of  Myr  the  air-sprite.  Near  her  brothers'  house, 
where  she  lived,  there  lay  among  reeds,  half  drawn  from 
the  water,  the  ruin  of  a  boat.  It  was  a  place  to  sit  and  think, 
whether  the  sun  shone  or  the  clouds  scudded.  Halmis 
possessed  a  stringed  instrument  of  music,  a  thing  akin  to 
the  lyre.  Sometimes  she  brought  this  with  her  to  the  boat, 
and  played  upon  it  sitting  there,  hidden  by  the  reeds. 
Sometimes  she  sang,  her  voice  rising  from  the  reed  bed 
like  a  voice  of  the  earth. 

Ramiki  likewise  could  make  a  song  and  sing  it. 

Halmis  could  prophesy;  Ramiki  likewise. 

Each  had,  beyond  the  common,  perception,  memory, 
imagination,  and  moving  gift  of  speech.  When  either 
recited  certain  things  to  the  people  of  the  river  country, 
and  gave  advice  or  promised  good  or  threatened  penalty, 
it  was  called  prophecy.  When  what  they  said  came  to  pass 
they  received  great  honour;  when  it  failed  they  said  that 
the  time  was  not  yet,  but  that  the  people  would  reach  it. 
Halmis  believed  in  her  power.  Ramiki  believed  in  his 
power.  While  that  was  so,  either  was  capable  at  times  of 
inner  doubt  and  unhappiness.  But,  very  largely,  they  kept 
that  to  themselves.  That  course,  they  thought,  was  un 
deniably  wiser,  in  the  world  as  it  was  constituted.  As  for 
belief  in  each  other's  powers,  that  wavered. 


THE   PROPHET  115 

Halmis  dwelled  by  the  water-side.  Ramiki  had  his 
home  upon  rising  land,  where  he  lived  with  his  father  in  a 
well-built  house  guarding  field  and  pasture.  The  people 
still  thought  that  the  old  chief  would  give  the  house  to 
Ramiki,  keeping  a  corner  for  himself,  and  that  Halmis 
would  leave  her  brothers  by  the  riverside  and  come  into 
Ramiki's  house.  Surely  it  would  be  advantageous  to  her 
to  do  so! 

Halmis  and  Ramiki  also  thought,  many  times,  that 
they  would  put  hand  in  hand  before  witnesses  and  become 
man  and  wife.  But  after  each  time  that  they  thought  this, 
and  before  they  could  really  speak  of  it  to  others,  they 
quarrelled. 

"I  believe  not  in  your  power!"  said  Halmis,  and  she  said 
it  with  scorn. 

"I  believe  not  in  your  power!"  said  Ramiki,  and  he  said 
it  with  fierceness. 

When  they  spoke  thus  each  experienced  ill-feeling  to 
ward  the  other  and  wished  for  some  occult  gift  of  hurting. 
They  did  not  observe  that  these  disbeliefs  bubbled  darkly 
from  days  when  they  did  not  believe  in  themselves.  Halmis 
went  to  her  brothers'  house,  Ramiki  to  his  father's  above 
the  fields.  The  village  talked,  but  old  tradition  gave  it 
forth  that  prophets  might  be  allowed  to  differ  from  other 
folk. 

Whether  individuals  loved  or  hated,  the  river-country 
people  had  troubles  of  a  collective  nature.  They  had  been 
long,  long  seated  in  a  plain,  great  enough  and  rich  enough 
for  the  forefathers,  not  so  great  nor  so  rich  for  the  descend 
ant  swarm.  Now  it  was  crowded,  now  it  was  being  sucked 
dry.  For  a  time  there  seemed  help  in  being  a  terror  to  the 
plain  on  the  other  side  of  a  chain  of  hills,  in  organizing  each 


n6  THE   WANDERERS 

bright  season  a  great  raid  to  bring  home  wealth  and  pro 
vision  for  man  and  beast.  But  that  recourse  was  failing. 
Other  plains,  too,  were  crowded,  sucked  dry,  growing 
poor.  .  .  .  There  was  much  exposure  of  children,  almost 
always  female  children.  The  old,  too,  were  put  to  death. 
But  all  that  only  partially  helped. 

People  must  move  —  at  any  rate,  some  people.  There 
was  an  old  song  of  the  plain  which  said  that  before  the 
memory  of  man  there  had  been  a  moving;  in  short,  that 
the  plain-folk  had  moved  from  elsewhere  into  the  plain.  It 
was  hard  to  believe.  .  .  . 

The  chiefs  and  the  elders  consulted  together.  They  ap 
plied  for  help  to  all  likely  forces,  including,  well  to  the 
front,  the  supernatural. 

A  concourse  was  held,  an  assembly  of  the  folk  of  the 
plain.  Not  so  many  miles  wide  and  long  was  the  plain;  it 
did  not  take  thousands  to  make  living  difficult.  The  most 
got  within  hearing  of  them  who  harangued  from  the  great 
flat  stone  that  was  the  sacred  or  hallowed  stone,  alike  of 
speech  and  of  sacrifice.  Chiefs  must  be  orators,  elders  must 
know  how  to  bring  wisdom  home,  priest  and  prophet  must 
be  able  to  fix  the  ridge-pole.  .  .  .  All  was  done  in  order, 
throughout  a  day  of  sun  and  shadow. 

Ramiki  and  Halmis  stood  together  upon  the  stone  that 
was  wide  as  the  floor  of  a  house.  The  day  was  advanced, 
the  light  gold-red;  behind  were  three  great  trees,  before  and 
to  either  hand  the  scimitar-shaped  crowd  of  the  people, 
excited  already  by  music  and  by  passionate,  persuasive 
speech.  The  drums  beat,  the  cymbals  clanged,  then  si 
lence,  then  right  posturing  by  prophet  and  prophetess,  then 
words  half  spoken,  half  sung,  sent  from  the  lips  with  force, 
ringing  and  reaching! 


THE   PROPHET  117 

"Folk  of  the  river-plain!" 
chanted  Ramiki. 

"People  of  Arzan,  the  high  god,  the  great  god, 

God  of  the  gods ! 

For  you  I  cried  to  Arzan. 
'O  Arzan! 

The  people  increase  as  it  were  the  river  in  spring  time!'" 

Halmis  the  prophetess  took  the  chant:  — 

"  In  the  fresh  green  month  there  are  two  birds! 
In  the  bright,  flowering  month,  there  are  six. 
I  said  to  the  god, 
*  It  is  a  weary  thing, 
This  giving  death  to  nestlings! 
The  old,  too,  often  like  to  rest  a  little  longer, 
Watching  the  children!' 
I  said  to  the  god!" 

Ramiki  chanted:  — 

"Arzan  answered  Ramiki  the  prophet, 
*  Look,  Oman! 
How  the  river  breaks  its  bonds  and  is  at  home  in  new  lands! '" 

Halmis  chanted:  — 

"  The  god  sang  to  Halmis  —  to  Halmis  who  prophesies!  — 
*  Stay  the  birds  in  the  tree  where  they  nested  ? 
Z,o,  at  morn  see  the  wings  in  the  sky!'" 

Ramiki   made  a  great  gesture.     His  voice  soared  and 
rang :  — 

"From  the  storm  spoke  Arzan:  *  Learn  0  prophet, 
What  my  folk  of  the  plain  have  forgotten! 
Of  old  ye  moved  as  ye  grew, 
Ye  left  ever  the  eaten  land  for  the  fresh  land!'" 

Halmis  swayed  in  the  wind  of  rapture. 


n8  THE   WANDERERS 

"Two  shall  stay  and  two  shall  go/* 
chanted  Halmis. 

"For  some  love  the  home  tree  and  some  love  the  new  tree! 
The  new  soon  becomes  the  home  tree. 
The  god  smiles  on  both  so  we  judge  when  to  alter!" 

Ramiki  moved  upon  the  stone.  At  the  edge  he  stooped, 
he  caught  from  one  below  a  drum,  he  beat  upon  it. 

"I  awaked  in  the  morning! 
Arzan  who  dwells  in  the  mountain  said,  'Go!'" 

Halmis  took  cymbals,  she  lifted  her  arms,  there  clashed 
forth  sonorous  music. 

"'  Part I'saith  the  god. 
'  Two  nations  where  there  was  one. 
And  one  it  shall  tarry,  and  one  it  shall  wander! '  — 
'Come!'  cries  the  earth,  'for  my  arms  they  are  wide, 
And  my  breasts  they  are  full,  in  the  east  and  the  west! '" 

"Hai!  we  will  divide!"  cried  the  people;  and  would 
have  done  it  that  day  if  the  chiefs  and  the  elders  had  al 
lowed.  .  .  . 

Halmis  went  down  in  the  evening  to  the  boat  among  the 
reeds  and  sat  there  in  the  moonshine,  her  arms  upon  her 
knees  and  her  head  upon  her  arms.  Ramiki  left  the  throng 
of  chief  men  gathered  in  the  chief  house,  drinking  there  red 
juice  of  the  vine.  He  walked  up  and  down  in  the  moon 
light.  He  was  not  calm  within,  nor  triumphant  because 
wisdom  had  become  the  choice  of  the  people.  Something 
dark  within  was  spreading  and  staining  the  light  within. 
The  river-country  people  had  many  words  for  jealousy, 
but  usually  these  pointed  to  a  forthright  lover's  jealousy. 
That  was  not  the  jealousy  that  Ramiki  felt  to-night.  He 


THE   PROPHET  119 

spoke  to  the  skies.  "Why  should  she  prophesy,  dividing 
the  praise?" 

Down  in  the  reeds  Halmis  rocked  to  and  fro,  making 
decisions. 

When  the  wine  had  passed  from  their  heads,  in  the  fa 
vouring  tide  between  foaming  enthusiasm  and  the  back- 
drag  to  old  levels,  the  elders  and  chiefs  pressed  the  parti 
tion  of  the  people.  Came  to  the  river-plain  humming  days 
of  excitement,  deeper,  more  sonorous  and  richly  coloured 
than  any  remembered.  So  many  should  fare  forth,  so  many 
should  rest  behind!  These  individuals  would  stay,  these 
would  go.  An  imaginary  line  was  drawn,  and  some  stepped 
to  the  one  side  and  some  to  the  other.  Heads  of  fami 
lies  and  owners  of  wealth  chose  for  themselves  and  their 
households,  for  women,  youths,  children,  and  bondfolk. 
So  that  they  might  be  distinguished,  those  staying  painted 
across  their  foreheads  a  band  of  blue,  those  going  a  band 
of  red.  A  vast  preparation  of  wagons  arose,  a  sorting  of 
flocks  and  herds,  a  gathering  of  horses  and  strong  oxen,  a 
filling  of  grain  sacks,  a  heaping  of  weapons  and  imple 
ments.  Life  took  a  quicker  stride,  had  more  life  in  its  eyes. 
Every  day  there  was  debating,  every  day  choice. 

Ramiki  went  down  to  the  boat  among  the  reeds.  The 
sun  was  shining,  the  wind  was  blowing,  the  reeds  were 
moving.  Halmis  sat  in  the  broken  boat,  and  Halmis  had 
across  her  forehead  a  stripe  of  red.  He  halted,  he  stared. 
.  .  .  He  had  come  to  find  Halmis,  to  speak  of  their  taking 
hands  and  faring  forth  with  the  migrating  host  —  prophet 
and  prophetess,  and  the  prophet  the  head  of  that  house 
hold!  And  here,  before  he  spoke,  was  Halmis  with  her 
forehead  marked  for  outfaring! 

He  stared. 


120  THE  WANDERERS 

"Ha,  red-on-the-forehead!"  said  Halmis.  "I  had  a 
dream  last  night!  We  met  rivers  and  mountains,  but  the 
wagons  and  the  oxen  swam  like  boats  and  flew  like  eagles 
and  we  came  to  a  golden  house — " 

Ramiki  was  often  jealous  of  Halmis's  dreaming,  but  he 
did  not  think  now  of  that.  All  was  lost  in  the  fact  of  that 
red  mark,  made  now,  not  after  he  had  taken  Halmis's  hand 
in  his,  before  witnesses! 

He  spoke,  "Taru  and  Nardan,  your  brothers,  stay  in 
the  plain.  They  have  marked  their  foreheads  with  blue, 
and  Ina  and  Matar,  their  wives,  are  marked  with  blue. 
All  their  household  .  .  ." 

"I  leave  their  household,"  answered  Halmis.  "I  am 
going  to  seek  it  —  the  golden  house  beyond  the  hills! " 

"My  house?" 

"  I  want  to  know  what  is  there,  beyond  the  hills!  It  was 
not  your  house,  Ramiki,  in  my  dream,  nor  my  house."  She 
lifted  a  reed  in  her  hand.  "It  was  the  house." 

Ramiki  moistened  his  lips.  "A  woman  without  a  hus 
band  goes  or  stays  as  goes  or  stays  her  father.  If  her  father 
be  dead,  then  she  goes  or  stays  as  goes  or  stays  her  brother 
or  her  nearest  kinsman." 

"They  made  that  rule.  I  am  prophetess  of  Arzan.  I 
rule  for  myself.  I  have  spoken  to  the  chiefs  and  the  elders. 
By  the  god-stone,  many  watching,  I  put  red  paint  upon  my 
forehead!" 

Ramiki  breathed  hard.  There  was  a  Ramiki  who  was 
going  to  speak,  and  somewhere  else  there  was  another 
Ramiki.  Both  lived,  but  the  one  who  had  the  word  was  of 
great  size. 

"It  is  unheard  of!"  said  Ramiki. 

He  turned  away,  he  left  the  shining  sun,  the  blowing 


THE  PROPHET  121 

wind,  the  moving  reeds.  He  went  away  in  a  heated  dark 
ness  to  his  house  and  sat  there  upon  his  bed.  Like  the 
beating  of  a  drum  in  his  head,  over  and  over,  resounded 
words  he  had  overheard. 

Had  said  one  of  the  old  wise  men  to  another:  "The  god 
is  greater  in  Halmis  than  in  Ramiki!" 

Now  Ramiki  did  not  believe  that  saying,  and  now  he 
experienced  an  agonizing  doubt,  and  now  he  turned  to 
proving  to  himself  and  to  others  that  it  was  not  so.  That 
had  been  yesterday.  ...  In  the  night  he  had  waked,  and 
there  had  poured  over  him  like  the  river  in  flood  another 
feeling  for  Halmis.  ...  At  the  height  of  the  tide  he  had 
not  cared  that  she  had  so  much  of  the  god.  If  it  was  so,  it 
was  well  so!  ...  The  tide  was  a  wonderful  tide;  it  held  an 
hour,  and  then  it  began  to  ebb.  But  when  morning  came 
there  was  yet  a  fulness  that  sent  him  through  the  shining 
sun  and  the  blowing  wind  and  the  waving  reeds  to  Halmis. 
Then  the  tide  had  sunk  with  a  harsh  and  dreadful  noise. 

Ramiki  sat  upon  his  bed  and  listened  to  the  drum  beat 
in  his  head.  "One  said  to  the  other,  'The  god  is  greater  in 
Halmis  than  in  Ramiki!'  One  said  to  the  other,  'The  god 
is  greater  in  Halmis  than  in  Ramiki !'"  His  heart  was  bit 
ter  within  him,  bitter  as  a  root  he  knew  in  the  forest. 

His  father  came  into  the  house,  and,  sitting  down,  be 
gan  to  feather  arrows. 

Said  Ramiki  at  last:  "  I  found  Halmis  with  a  band  of  red 
upon  her  forehead.  .  .  .  She  goes  like  a  young  man,  walk 
ing  alone!" 

"That  should  not  be,"  said  his  father.  "If  one  woman 
does  a  thing  like  that,  another  woman  will  want  to  do  so 
too." 

"She  is  prophetess." 


122  THE   WANDERERS 

"She  has  breasts  all  the  same,"  said  the  arrow-featherer. 

That  night,  in  the  nighttime,  staring  from  his  mat  into 
the  velvet  darkness,  he  did  not  want  to  keep  her  from  go 
ing,  for  was  not  he,  Ramiki,  going?  Then  in  the  morning, 
with  the  sound  of  the  crowing  of  the  cocks,  that  sense  of 
oneness  fell  again  in  two.  He  ceased  to  love  Halmis.  He 
felt  again  enmity  and  jealousy,  and  a  great,  oh,  a  great  con 
cern  for  himself.  "Arzan!  Arzan!"  he  cried.  "Am  I  not 
man?  Am  I  not  the  greater  prophet?" 

That  day  all  the  people  saw  him  go  away  into  a  deep 
wood  that  yet  was  left  upon  the  plain.  He  went  with  some 
ostentation  of  folded  arms  and  brooding  forehead.  "The 
god  will  visit  the  prophet!"  they  said.  In  the  evening 
Ramiki  might  stand  upon  the  god-stone  and  break  into 
rhapsody  while  all  who  were  not  preoccupied  gathered  to 
hear. 

But  though  Ramiki  returned  at  eve,  it  was  not  to  the 
god-stone.  He  found  Halmis  in  the  glow,  watching  boys 
and  girls  who  moved  in  a  dance.  He  and  Halmis  went 
away  together,  down  to  the  boat,  for  that  was  the  quiet 
est  place. 

"What  did  you  do  in  the  wood?"  asked  Halmis.  "Sit 
all  day  and  look  at  your  shadow?" 

It  was  evident  that  she  was  willing  to  quarrel.  She  was 
no  less  capable  than  Ramiki  of  formulating  the  notion  that 
where  there  was  not  room  for  two  one  must  be  pushed 
away.  She  looked  at  Ramiki,  and  Ramiki,  rightly  or 
wrongly,  suddenly  believed  that  she  wished  there  was  blue 
paint  upon  his  forehead.  The  thought  was  as  unexpected 
as 'an  earthquake' and  well-nigh  as  devastating. 

They  parted  the  reeds  and  stepped  down  to  the  boat. 
They  sat  there  and  looked  blackly  at  each  other. 


THE   PROPHET  123 

"No,  I  did  not,"  said  Ramiki,  "  sit  all  day  and  look  at  my 
shadow.  ...  I  praised  Arzan.  .  .  .  Then  I  heard  his  voice 
from  the  clouds." 

Halmis  shivered  slightly.  "What  talk  did  he  make  to 
you?" 

"His  speech  was  about  women,"  said  Ramiki  fiercely. 

"Oh  — ah!" 

"It  was  as  though  I  were  in  his  mountain.  He  told  me 
many  things  —  great  and  wonderful  things.  To-morrow 
I  am  going  again  to  the  wood  —  to  praise  Arzan  again 
and  listen  again." 

"Then  you  will  stand  upon  the  god-stone  and  sing  his 
words?" 

"So!"  said  Ramiki.  "In  a  great  song.  To  which  the 
folk  will  listen  as  I  listened  to  Arzan." 

Halmis  looked  at  him  in  silence.  When  she  spoke  it  was 
in  a  whisper.  She  bent  forward,  her  hand  touched  his 
knee.  "Ramiki  .  .  .  Did  Arzan  really  speak?  Perhaps  it 
was  only  you  —  speaking  to  yourself?" 

Her  words  had  behind  them  at  least  an  amount 
of  comprehension.  If  it  had  been  that  way  she  could 
match  it  from  her  own  experience!  .  .  .  Sometimes  she 
thought  that  she  really  had  seen  the  god  or  had  heard 
the  voice.  At  other  times  she  thought  blackly  that  it 
was  only  that  Halmis  who  seemed  a  negligible  thing. 
But  she  did  not  confide  these  doubts  to  the  folk  be 
fore  whom  she  prophesied.  Nor  would  Ramiki.  Nor  did 
she  see  how  any  could  be  brought  to  question  Arzan  in 
him. 

Nevertheless,  she  ached  to  take  the  tall  bright  feather 
from  Ramiki's  headdress  —  to  take  it  at  least  for  a  time! 
In  fact,  she  felt  much  as  Ramiki  felt.  Where  he  had 


i24  THE  WANDERERS 

Halmis  before  him,  she  had  before  her  Ramiki.  When  it 
came  to  that  jealousy,  there  was  small  difference  between 
them. 

The  difference  between  them  was  a  matter  of  the  status 
of  men  and  the  status  of  women  —  of  hunters'  stations. 
And  this  hunter  may  have  a  coign  of  vantage  and,  in 
security,  bring  down  the  game  he  wishes  to  bring  down, 
and  that  hunter  may  be  placed  disadvantageously  and  the 
matter  end  quite  differently. 

Ramiki's  eyes  burned.  He  looked  over  Halmis's  head 
at  the  many-shaped  and  tinted  clouds.  "Arzan  spoke  — 
Arzan!  He  told  me  things  about  women  that  I  had  not 
thought  of  before!" 

Halmis  sat  in  silence.  Before  her,  between  her  and 
Ramiki,  formed  a  picture  of  the  god-stone  and  the  three 
trees  behind  it,  and  the  people  pressing  close,  and  Ramiki 
chanting  greatly  to  them  what  Arzan  had  told  him  —  mak 
ing  them  believe.  At  his  best  Ramiki  was  a  great  prophet. 
.  .  .  What  had  Arzan  told  him? 

She  raised  her  eyes.   "What  did  Arzan  tell  you?" 

Ramiki  laughed  fiercely.  "He  told  me  why  it  was  that 
women  go  or  stay  only  as  men  say  it!" 

"Why  is  it,  Ramiki?" 

Ramiki  looked  at  her,  and  now  there  was  trader's  cun 
ning  mixed  with  the  prophet  strain.  "  Arzan  has  not  yet 
given  me  the  right  words! — •  It  may  be  four  or  five  days 
before  I  sing  to  the  people." 

"Four  or  five  days,"  thought  Halmis,  but  she  thought  it 
to  herself.  She  nursed  her  knees  and  looked  at  the  bowing 
reeds. 

"In  all  ways,"  said  Ramiki  fiercely,  "men  are  stronger 
than  women!" 


THE   PROPHET  125 

"Ha!"  said  Halmis.  "The  fountains  of  milk!  The  be 
ings  that  he  draws  from  himself!" 

"Four  things  are  tabu  for  women!  Noble  hunting,  noble 
warring,  noble  owning,  noble  choosing!" 

"O  great  man  who  is  noble  throughout!  Cold  does  not 
chill  him!  Wet  does  not  wet  him!  Thirst  does  not  parch 
him,  and  those  he  binds  are  not  shaped  like  him!" 

"Arzan  wither  your  tongue!"  said  Ramiki. 

The  sun  carried  its  torch  underground.  The  plain  dark 
ened,  the  wind  sighed  in  the  reeds.  "Why  do  we  quarrel 
so?"  asked  Halmis.  "Now,  I  like  Ramiki,  and  Ramiki 
likes  me.  And  then  I  would  kill  Ramiki,  and  he  me.  And 
then  I  like  Ramiki  again,  and  am  sorry.  .  .  .  Ramiki!" 

She  moved  nearer  to  him.    "Ramiki!" 

Ramiki  cried  out.   "O  Arzan!  still  she  befools  me!" 

He  had  cried  so  loudly  that  his  words  appeared  still  to 
sound  over  the  marsh  and  the  river.  Halmis  stood  still, 
then,  turning,  stepped  from  the  boat  upon  the  reedy  river- 
bank.  "Thou  fool!  not  to  know  when!"  said  Halmis. 

Ramiki  rose  from  his  mat  at  dawn,  drank  milk  and  ate 
barley  cakes,  and  passed  through  the  fields  to  the  thick 
wood.  After  wandering  for  some  time  he  found  a  tree  that 
liked  him.  It  was  huge  of  trunk  and  spreading  of  branch, 
and  near  by,  in  a  round  basin,  a  spring  murmured.  Ramiki 
sat  down  beneath  the  tree.  At  first  he  looked  at  the  boughs 
and  the  leaves  and  the  birds,  and  at  the  sky  between  the 
boughs.  Then  he  looked  at  the  spring,  and  it  made  a  centre 
for  him  —  a  small,  bright,  round  pool,  shot  at  by  the  arrows 
of  the  sun.  The  wood  was  still,  and  had  a  manifold  fra 
grance.  Ramiki  felt  still  likewise. 

Ramiki  spent  the  day  in  the  wood.  He  had  barley  cakes 
with  him  in  a  wallet:.  Now  and  again  he  rnpved  about, 


126  THE   WANDERERS 

once  he  slept  a  little.  When  he  waked  he  saw  a  serpent 
drinking.  About  midday  a  great  cloud  mounted  into  the 
sky.  At  top  it  was  dazzling  white,  but  underneath  and  in 
hollows  shadow-dark.  Ramiki  watched  it  until  it  sank 
again  beneath  the  wood  and  there  was  only  clear  and  open 
heaven.  He  watched  it  very  intently,  swaying  his  body 
back  and  forth  as  he  watched.  When  it  was  gone  his  gaze 
returned  to  the  spring.  .  .  .  He  had  a  good  day,  a  balmy, 
idea-flowing  day! 

It  was  so  prosperous,  his  spirit  was  at  once  so  fluent  and 
so  soothed,  that  earth  and  life,  and  Halmis  in  both,  grew 
more  than  tolerable.  Ramiki  sat  cross-legged  in  the  wood 
and  stared  at  the  cloud  or  at  the  spring,  until  the  god  had 
given  him  the  song  he  should  sing.  When  he  had  it  he 
relaxed,  and  resting  against  the  tree  let  his  mind  go  doze 
and  play.  The  god  had  spoken  and  gone,  but  Ramiki 
would  remember!  After  a  time  he  sat  upright  again,  and 
finding  at  hand  a  bit  of  wood,  drew  his  knife  from  the 
sheath,  and  began  to  whittle  an  arrow.  As  he  worked  he 
hummed  to  himself.  Once  or  twice  he  laughed.  It  slipped 
into  his  mind,  from  where  he  knew  not,  that  that  was  a 
fine  boulder  to  throw  into  the  camp  of  women! .  .  .  He  felt 
so  balm-bathed  and  free  that  he  lost  for  a  time  any  grudge 
against  the  camp  of  women,  any  grudge  against  Halmis. 

The  light  began  to  weaken  in  the  wood.  Ramiki,  more 
over,  was  hungry.  He  rose  from  beneath  the  tree,  and  re 
traced  his  steps  to  the  village.  The  sun  was  sinking  as  he 
came  near.  A  red  and  gold  light  caressed  the  river-plain. 
He  heard  blow  one  of  the  long  trumpets,  and  presently  saw 
that  folk  were  gathering  to  the  central  place  where  stood 
the  god-stone.  A  boy  passed  him,  running  from  the  fields. 
Ramiki  called  after  him.  "What  is  doing?'1 


THE   PROPHET  127 

"Halmis-who-prophesies,"  spoke  the  boy  over  his 
shoulder,  "will  tell  the  folk  who  go  what  they  shall  find!" 
He  ran  on. 

The  balm  flowed  away  from  Ramiki. 

He  turned  to  the  river,  and  there  was  Halmis  coming  up 
from  the  water-side.  He  waited  for  her.  She  came  even 
with  him,  and  the  red  sunlight  made  burning  and  bright  the 
red  upon  her  forehead  and  the  red  in  her  hair. 

Ramiki  choked.  "The  large  things  of  the  people  are  for 
a  man's  thinking  upon  and  handling  — " 

"O  Ramiki!"  said  Halmis,  "how  can  I  help  thinking 
upon  and  handling  my  own?" 

She  moved  on  toward  the  god-stone  where  the  people 
were  gathered.  Ramiki  kept  her  company.  At  first  they 
moved  with  an  equal  step,  then  Ramiki  quickened  his. 
Halmis  looked  aside  at  him.  His  frame  was  drawn  to  great 
height,  his  feet  seemed  hardly  to  touch  the  sunburned 
earth.  He  seemed  to  move  in  quivering  air;  the  inrush  of 
force  was  evident.  "The  god  is  in  him!  The  god  is  in  him!" 
thought  Halmis.  Quickening  her  step  she  came  even  with 
him  again.  But  now  Ramiki  uttered  a  shout  and  began  to 
run.  .  .  . 

He  came  to  the  massed  people;  crying  aloud,  he  pursued 
his  way.  "Arzan!  Arzan!"  he  cried.  "I  have  been  with 
Arzan  in  the  wood!  O  people  of  the  river-plain,  Arzan  has 
given  it  to  me  to  say!" 

The  gathered  folk  were  tow  to  flame,  wax  to  the  mo 
ment's  sharp  impression.  The  crisis  in  their  affairs  had 
lifted  them,  shaken  them  awake.  Now  they  were  ready 
constantly  for  new  excitement,  craved  the  new,  or  the  old 
made  new.  It  had  been  good  that  Halmis  the  prophetess 
should  prophesy  of  what  the  going  stream  might  find!  It 


128  THE  WANDERERS 

was  good  that  there  should  arrive  the  fresher  alarum  of 
Ramiki  the  prophet  —  Ramiki  returning  from  an  im 
mediate  interview  with  Over-Knowledge,  Over-Power! 
"Arzan  the  great  maker!"  shouted  Ramiki.  "I  have 
talked  with  Arzan!  You  have  sinned  before  him,  and  I 
will  show  you  how!" 

All  turned  from  prophetess  to  prophet.  All  saw  Ramiki, 
but  all  had  a  sense  of  the  overshadowing  Energy.  "Ar 
zan!"  cried  the  people,  and  "Hearken  to  the  prophet!" 

Ramiki  came  to  the  god-stone.  He  mounted  to  the  place 
of  the  prophet.  He  turned,  he  faced  the  chiefs  and  the 
elders  and  the  people,  men  and  women.  The  wind  blew  his 
garment  and  lifted  his  hair;  they  thought  that  they  saw 
around  him  the  red  light  of  Arzan.  They  turned,  every 
one,  from  Halmis,  they  centred  on  Ramiki. 

Halmis  leaned  against  a  tree.  Her  heart  beat  heavily.  At 
first  she  had  felt  only  rage.  She  thought  she  would  come 
to  the  god-stone  and  dispute  it  with  that  usurper,  and  then 
had  come  fear  to  halt  her.  She  hated  fear,  she  fought  it  as 
with  fire.  But  it  was  a  great  beast  that,  beaten  away,  came 
again!  To-day  she  tried  to  fight  fear  with  scorn,  scorn 
being  an  arrow  always  in  her  quiver.  But  it  failed  to-day. 
Halmis  looked  at  the  women  about  her  and  farther  away 
in  the  throng.  There  were  many  women,  but  that  did  not 
seem  to  help.  .  .  .  Men  held  better  by  all  men.  Women 
held  better  by  the  children,  but  the  men  by  one  another. 
.  .  .  Halmis  felt  alone  and  afraid.  Ramiki  was  speaking 
for  Arzan.  Arzan  was  a  terrible  deity  and  an  eloquent! 
Halmis  thought  that  a  mist  was  rising  around  her.  .  .  . 

Ramiki  was  not  telling  what  the  people  marked  with 
red  should  find  or  do,  out  of  the  river  country,  beyond  the 
heaven-propping  hills.  He  was  not  telling  how  plentifully 


THE  PROPHET 

now  would  be  fed  the  folk  marked  with  blue,  the  folk  stay 
ing  in  the  ancient  land.  He  was  not  telling  —  or  at  least 
it  did  not  yet  appear  that  he  was  telling  —  why  the  wreath 
was  given  to  man.  He  was  not  telling  —  or  at  least  not 
yet  telling  —  how,  in  this  moment,  the  folk  were  sinning 
against  Arzan.  He  was  telling  how  the  world  was  made, 
telling  old  things  that  they  knew  already,  and  perhaps  new 
things. 

Sometimes  Ramiki  spoke  and  sometimes  he  sang,  pass 
ing  from  saying  into  singing,  from  singing  into  saying.  To 
a  great  part  of  the  listening  throng  what  he  said  or  sang 
was  the  literal  word  of  Arzan.  Imaginings  and  making  to 
see  and  touch  the  Not-There  were  the  Works  of  Arzan  — 
when  they  were  not  the  works  of  Izd,  who,  with  the  river- 
country  people,  meant  darkness  and  demon.  .  .  . 

Passion  sustained  Ramiki  the  prophet.  He  was  a  strong 
man  to-night,  a  dancer,  a  hunter,  a  chief  with  hawk  wings 
bound  upon  his  head.  The  red  sunset  passed  into  dusk, 
the  dusk  into  night,  bondmen  lighted  torches,  the  people 
slanted  toward  the  god-stone.  Ramiki  sang  the  battles 
of  Arzan  and  Izd  —  Arzan  and  his  hosts  and  Izd  and 
her  hosts  —  Izd  the  monstrous  serpent,  Izd  the  ancient 
dragon!  That  was  old  story,  but  the  river-country  people 
did  not  easily  tire  of  old  stories.  And  Ramiki  was  singing 
with  power,  and  there  were  new  things  that  he  was  telling. 
In  especial  they  learned  feats  of  Izd  that  they  had  not 
known.  They  knew  her  slaying  breath  and  the  injuries 
she  did  to  Arzan,  and  the  keen  knife  with  which  Arzan 
slew  her  and  made  of  her  body  the  sky  and  the  earth! 
But  the  prophet  gave  them  new  detail  nd  incident  — 
new  and  exciting  —  and  all  to  them  seemed  clothed  in 
beauty  and  terror,  and  all  was  true  —  sublimely  true! 


130  THE  WANDERERS 

Then  Ramiki  sang  how  Izd,  though  she  was  cut  into  sky 
and  earth,  yet  made  evil,  and  Arzan  made  good  —  Izd  and 
her  helpers  and  Arzan  and  his  helpers.  He  sang  the  mak 
ing  of  great  waters,  and  the  beasts  of  wood  and  field,  and 
the  making  of  trees  and  of  grain,  and  it  was  all  well  known 
to  the  river-country  people  and  often  recited.  He  came 
to  the  making  of  people  —  of  the  great  father-man  and 
mother-woman,  ancestors  of  the  river-plain  —  and  here  he 
had  brought  from  the  wood  new  wisdom. 

The  river  country  had  not  had  it  before,  but,  dimly  or 
clearly,  it  had  been  aware  of  that  vast  unexplained.  Why? 
And  why  —  and  why?  It  had  put  forward  groping  and 
tentative  answers  to  its  own  questions,  but  those  answers 
had  not  really  explained.  The  air  held  the  answer  diffused. 
Now  it  was  coming  together  like  the  rich  cloud  that  on 
summer  days  rose  behind  the  mountain  where  Arzan  dwelt. 

Why  were  men  here,  and  women  there?  Why,  when  a 
man  entered  his  house,  did  he  stamp  with  his  foot  to  show 
mastership?  .  .  . 

Ramiki  had  used  a  great  strain,  a  wide-flowing,  deep- 
rushing  chant.  Now  he  changed.  This  to  come  was  a  story 
within  a  story.  He  made  a  pause,  he  regarded  the  deep 
night  above,  he  altered  posture  and  manner.  The  village, 
marked  with  blue  and  marked  with  red,  drew  breath  for 
new  things.  There  was  a  company  of  youths  who,  when 
prophet  or  prophetess  spoke,  were  wont  to  band  them 
selves  at  one  side  of  the  god-stone.  These  repeated  loudly 
word  or  line  wanting  that  stress,  or  in  silences  came  in 
with  refrains  of  their  own,  or  merely  shouted  approbation 
of  the  god  in  the  singer.  Now  while  Ramiki  watched  the 
dark,  they  shouted,  " Arzan  in  the  prophet!" 

Halmis  heard  them  where  she  leaned  against  the  tree, 


THE   PROPHET  131 

decked  to  sing  and  not  singing,  here  to  prophesy  from  the 
god-stone  and  not  prophesying,  come  from  the  river  with 
a  high  heart  and  now  knowing  fear.  It  was  like  a  spell  upon 
her,  a  slow,  cold  poison  in  her  veins.  Ramiki  —  Ramiki  — 
Ramiki  only  was  singing  to  the  people.  .  .  .  She  heard  him, 
and  though  she  tried  not  to  believe  what  he  sang,  at  last 
in  great  part  she  believed.  How  could  she  else,  being  of  the 
river-plain  and  so  very  like  Ramiki  who  himself  believed? 
.  .  .  She  was  very  capable  of  a  sense  of  sin  —  and  perhaps 
it  all  had  come  about  that  way.  Arzan  had  his  favourite 
—  no  doubt  of  that!  There  must  be  reasons  for  favour  and 
disfavour.  .  .  .  Ramiki  —  Ramiki  —  Ramiki  was  singing. 
As  she  stood  under  the  tree  she  seemed  to  herself,  for  one 
strange  moment,  to  have  a  child  in  her  arms.  .  .  .  Ramiki 
sang:  — 

"  On  the  mountain-top  stood  the  stone  of  Arzan, 

Arzan-stone  where  Arzan  dwelled. 

Izd  came  and  coiled  around  the  mountain. 

Izd  said  to  her  daughters,  'Yet  shall  we  win!' 

Arzan  had  nothing  to  do  that  day. 

He  was  ready  for  work  he  had  dreamed  about. 

By  the  sacred  river  stood  the  sacred  tree. 

He  broke  a  bough  that  was  shaped  to  his  mind. 

Arzan  sat  on  the  stone  and  carved, 

Arzan  carved  the  bough  of  the  tree. 

Arzan  cut  from  the  bough  a  man! 

Fair  was  the  man,  and  tall  and  brave! 
'My  man,'  said  Arzan,  and  gave  him  blood, 

Piercing  the  arm  that  shook  the  god-spear, 

Pouring  the  drops  in  the  veins  of  the  man. 
'My  man,'  said  Arzan,  and  gave  him  warmth, 

Held  to  his  side  within  the  god-robe. 
'My  man,'  said  Arzan,  and  gave  him  breath, 

Putting  his  mouth  to  the  first  man's  mouth. 
'My  man,'  said  Arzan,  and  gave  him  speech: 
'Arja!'  said  the  god.  Said  Arja,  'Arzan!'" 


132  THE   WANDERERS 

The  river-plain  that  was  descended  from  Arja  clapped 
hands  and  rocked  itself.  The  band  of  young  men  shouted 
to  the  sky:  — 

"'Arja!'  said  the  god.   Said  Arja,  'Arum!'" 
Ramiki  pursued  his  story,  and  while  he  chanted  he  acted. 

"Izd  heard  them  talking,  the  evil  Izd! 

Izd  and  her  daughters  were  coiled  below. 

Arja  lived  happy,  Arja  alone. 

Arzan  spoke  from  the  sacred  mount. 
'To  make  more  blissful,  I  will  give  you  sons.' 

Arzan  shook  leaves  from  the  sacred  tree. 

They  fell  in  a  throng  around  the  god-stone. 

They  fell  down  as  leaves,  they  rose  up  as  men, 

Sons  of  Arja!" 

"Sons  of  Arja!"  the  youths  shouted.   "  Arjcts  sons!" 

"Ten  moons  of  Arzan,  a  thousand  years, 
Arja  lived  happy,  he  and  his  sons. 
They  had  golden  bows  and  golden  arrows, 
Antlered  deer  to  make  them  food. 
When  they  put  in  wheat  it  came  up  thick. 
When  they  planted  barley  it  never  failed. 
Arzan  breathed  on  the  grass  that  grew  around, 
So  were  sheep  and  oxen  and  horses  bred, 
And  all  were  the  best  that  ever  were  seen! 
The  fish  in  the  river  loved  the  net. 
They  made  a  boat  with  a  thought  from  a  tree. 
Their  houses  were  large  and  filled  with  goods. 
Arzan  from  pebbles  formed  bondmen, 
Made  them  strong  to  take  and  bring, 
Gave  them  heart-love  for  the  Arzan-men, 
So  that  they  wrought  and  never  rebelled. 
The  grapes  grew  in  clusters  twice  that  big! 
Winter  was  not,  nor  was  parching  heat. 
Rain  came  at  their  call  and  went  at  their  wish. 
Arzan  made  a  herb  named  Love-among-friends. 
They  planted  it  thick,  and  tended  it  well. 


THE  PROPHET 

Arzan  took  from  each  man  a  red  drop  of  blood, 
Mixed  it  with  earth  and  made  the  bull,  Courage. 
Arzan  took  from  each  man  a  thought  while  he  slept, 
Drew  all  through  his  hands  and  made  the  rope,  Wisdom. 
A  thousand  years  lived  Arja  there, 
On  the  mountain  sides,  near  the  Arzan-stone. 
Izd  and  her  daughters  coiled  below, 
Cried  Izd  to  her  daughters,  'Yet  shall  we  win!' 
Arzan  looked  down  from  the  Arzan-stone. 
'Are  you  there,  Izd?  The  man  is  mine!'" 

Shouted  the  youths,  — 

" '  Are  you  there,  Izd?  The  man  is  mine  /'" 

The  strong  sound  smote  the  night.  The  flame  of  the 
torches  appeared  to  leap.  The  god-stone  was  lighted,  and 
the  figure  of  the  prophet.  The  crowd,  seated  or  standing, 
bent  like  vines  to  the  sun.  Interest  was  carried  to  a  point, 
and  through  the  point,  on  the  other  side  of  the  point, 
seemed  to  be  space  and  new  landscapes.  The  mind  of  the 
river-plain  was  ready  for  explanation  —  so  that  the  ex 
planation  did  riot  offend  its  sense  of  probabilities,  so  that 
it  seemed  godly  and  kingly,  so  that  it  was  a  boat  that  could 
sail  the  river.  .  .  . 

"Izd  said  naught,  but  she  set  to  work, 
Izd  and  her  daughters  set  to  work. 
Over  their  heads  they  wove  a  roof, 
Wide-long  as  earth  and  black  as  soot. 
Arzan  looked  down  from  the  mountain-top, 
But  Izd  was  hidden  under  her  roof. 
Izd  took  black  mire,  a  reed  and  fire, 
Izd  took  white  flint  and  a  cherry  stone, 
Izd  took  dawn-mist  and  sunset-red, 
Izd  took  false-dreams  and  ill-delight, 
And  out  of  them  all  Izd  made  a  shape. 
She  gave  it  breasts  and  a  beardless  face. 
Izd  and  her  daughters  lived  in  the  shape. 


i34  THE   WANDERERS 

Arja  sat  in  the  vineyard  deep. 

Izd  tore  the  cloud-roof  vast  and  black. 

Beneath  the  rent  she  set  the  shape. 

Arja  said,  'I  see  down  there, 

In  a  wild,  bright  light  a  thing  most  strange/ 

Arja  said,  'From  that  to  me 

Runs  like  a  stream,  a  deep,  deep  wish.' 

Arja  turned  to  the  Arzan-stone, 
'  Arzan,  O  Arzan,  maker  of  me! 

Down  there  is  that  that  would  climb  to  me!' 

Arzan  looked  through  Izd's  torn  roof. 

Arzan  was  angry  with  Izd  the  snake. 

He  made  a  storm  and  thatched  the  place, 

So  that  ever  it  thundered  there  and  burned, 

And  the  Arzan-man  could  not  see  the  shape. 

Then  Arja  pined,  though  he  could  not  die. 
'O  Arzan,  make  me  a  thing  like  that, 

To  keep  me  company  in  Arja-land!' 

Then  Arzan  frowned  and  shook  the  mount. 

Arja  hid  his  head  and  Arja  feared. 
'I  am  naught,'  said  Arja,  'but  thou  art  god!'" 

"We  are  naught!"  cried  the  people,  "but  he  is  god!" 
The  drum-players  and  the  long  trumpets  were  come  to 
the  stone. 

"Arzan  took  a  bough  from  the  sacred  tree, 

Less  was  it  at  once  than  the  Arja-bough! 

Arzan  sat  by  the  river  and  wrought  with  the  bough. 

A  shape  Arzan  made,  like  and  not  like  to  a  man. 

Smooth-faced  he  made  it  and  gave  it  breasts. 

Woman,  said  Arzan,  and  wrought  it  fair. 

And  gave  her  to  Arja  in  the  grove. 
'Live!'  said  Arzan,  'Be  wise  and  good, 

Tend  Arja-land  without  sorrow  and  pain, 

And  give  to  me  praise  who  made  all  well!' 

Then  Arzan  took  of  the  reeds  of  the  land, 

He  spake  his  word  and  they  stood  up  fair, 

Daughters  of  men,  with  streaming  hair. 

Izd  and  her  daughters  wept  with  rage. 

There  rose  a  spring  on  the  mountain  side. 


THE   PROPHET 

It  made  a  pool  like  a  silver  shield. 
The  clouds  saw  themselves  and  the  trees  around. 
It  drew  from  a  spring  by  the  Arzan-stone. 
'  Touch  it  not!'  said  Arzan.    'It  is  mine  alone.' 
Izd  and  her  daughters  coiled  below. 
Said  Izd  to  her  daughters,  'Yet  shall  we  win!'" 

The  music  beat  and  blared.  The  women  of  the  village 
looked  aslant  at  the  men,  and  the  men  at  the  women. 
Whatever  there  might  be  of  old,  old  woes,  terrors,  mis 
takes,  jealousies,  sins,  conflicts,  emulations,  tyrannies 
seemed,  for  one  moment,  to  come  up  through  the  past, 
burst  into  fire,  and  stream  and  fork. 

"The  Arja-woman  walked  by  herself. 

The  pool  made  a  gleaming  among  the  trees. 

Said  the  Arja-woman,  'Were  that  water  mine, 

Surely  it  would  give  me  strange  wealth  and  bliss!' 

The  Arja-woman  looked  around, 

The  Arja-woman  moved  through  the  thick  trees. 

The  Arja-woman  sat  by  the  spring. 

The  water  bubbled  and  the  water  shone. 
'Why  is  't  forbid?'  said  that  lately-made. 

Izd,  below  heard  the  word  she  said. 

Izd  tore  the  roof  so  the  woman  might  see. 

And  under  the  rent  she  set  the  shape. 

'I  see  down  there  a  strange,  fair  thing. 

I  wish  it  were  come  more  near  to  me!' 

Up  rose  the  shape  and  clasped  her  knee. 
'Put  your  arms  around  and  draw  me  close, 

And  wish  it  to  be  and  it  will  be. 

And  we  who  are  two  will  then  be  one, 

And  we  shall  drink  of  the  Arzan  spring! ' 

The  Arja-woman  put  her  arms  around, 

And  drew  her  close  and  wished  it  to  be. 

The  shape  entered  in;  the  two  were  one. 

The  shape  was  evil,  the  shape  was  Izd. 

The  Arja-woman  grew  more  fair, 

But  evil  of  heart,  and  a  bringer  of  ill. 


136  THE   WANDERERS 

Arjaya  stooped  to  the  Arzan  spring. 
She  drank  the  water,  she  washed  therein. 
The  tabu-water,  the  sacred  spring!" 

"Ahhh!"  breathed  the  river-country  people,  men  and 
women.  It  was  so.  They  had  known  it  must  be  so. 

"She  took  a  pitcher  and  drew  it  full. 

On  her  head  she  bore  it  through  the  grove. 

Arja  sat  in  the  pleasant  shade, 

And  feathered  his  arrows  bright  of  hue. 

Arja  sat  by  the  vineyard  edge, 

And  sang  to  himself  with  a  merry  heart. 

He  saw  Arjaya  and  he  felt  a  thirst. 

She  came  to  Arja  through  the  grove. 
'Arja,  hail!  Will  you  have  to  drink?' 

She  lowered  the  pitcher  to  his  hand. 

Arzan  thundered  from  the  Arzan-stone." 

"Arzan!  Give  us  protection!"  cried  the  rhythmically 
moving  river-country  people. 

"'Whence  drew  you  the  water?'  asked  the  Arzan-man. 
She  stood  with  anklets  of  silver  fine. 
She  stood  with  armlets  of  burning  gold. 
She  stood  with  a  frontlet  starry  bright. 
She  stood  in  a  robe  as  thin  as  mist. 
And  she  had  within  her  that  witchcraft  shape. 
She  bent  herself  and  she  kissed  his  mouth. 
'  Good  is  the  water.   I  drank.   Drink  thou!' 
Then  Arja  drank  the  tabu-water. 
Arzan  darkened  from  the  mountain-top." 

Arja  and  Arjaya,  and  how  and  when  the  Golden  Age 
went  down.  .  .  .  The  river-country  people  beheld  the 
form  of  that  of  which  they  had  long  heard  rumours,  old 
speech-of-things,  passing  from  people  to  people,  chang 
ing  shape  but  keeping  substance  as  it  passed!  The  river- 
country  people  both  remembered  and  freshly  imagined. 


THE  PROPHET  137 

"Arzan!  Arzan!  The  sin  —  the  sin!"  cried  the  river-plain. 
Men  believed  and  women  believed. 

"He  poured  down  fire  and  bitter  smoke, 
The  vineyards  were  blasted,  the  barley,  the  wheat. 
Day-night,  week-month  fell  fire  and  ashes. 
The  flocks  and  the  herds  went  down  to  death. 
The  antlered  deer  ran  out  of  the  earth. 
The  fish  drank  the  fire,  the  river  sank. 
Arzan  threw  stones  from  the  mountain-top. 
They  fell  like  rain,  they  smote  and  slew 
The  sons  and  daughters,  the  leaf-wrought  folk, 
And  the  pebble-bondmen  who  drudged  for  love. 
Arja  and  Arjaya  hid  under  a  hill. 
Arzan  ceased  to  thunder  and  pour  down  fire. 
But  the  land  was  a  withered  and  briery  place. 
Arja  and  Arjaya  crept  from  the  cave. 
And  Arja  had  sorrow  for  that  great  sin. 
But  Arjaya  had  Izd  coiled  round  her  heart. 
Arzan  spoke  from  the  Arzan-stone. 
'  For  vineyard  and  wheat  that  grow  of  themselves, 
For  golden  bow  and  golden  dart, 
For  antlered  deer  that  never  fail, 
For  ox  and  horse  of  a  mighty  breed, 
For  shining  fish  that  love  the  net, 
For  boats  adorned  that  are  never  lost, 
For  houses  large  and  heaps  of  goods, 
For  sons  of  Arja  who  live  in  bliss, 
For  work-folk  strong  who  are  glad  of  toil, 
For  always-spring,  for  life  all  sweet, 
Arja,  O  Arja!  tarry  and  see 
What  shall  fall  to  you  from  out  my  mount, 
Because  you  drank  of  the  tabu-water, 
Because  you  held  my  power  so  light, 
Because  Izd  came  between  you  and  me!' 
Arzan  thundered  and  Arja  feared. 
Arjaya  kneeled  upon  the  ground. 
Arzan  spoke  from  the  Arzan-stone. 
*  Woman  I  made  from  the  lesser  bough, 
And  gave  for  help  and  gave  for  play. 
Now  woman  shall  have  the  greater  pain! 


I3 8  THE   WANDERERS 

Hers  is  the  sin  of  the  tabu-water, 

She  turned  to  Izd  and  made  her  her  god, 

Half  Izd  she  is,  that  evil  snake, 

And  Arja  she  harmed,  the  Arzan-man, 

And  shut  him  from  the  blissful  land! 

Now  take  from  her  her  anklets  bright, 

And  take  from  her  her  armlets  gold. 

And  take  from  her  her  frontlet  of  stars, 

And  mark  her  brow  with  the  mark  I  show. 

In  all  that  is  done  man  shall  be  head, 

Man  shall  rule  and  woman  serve, 

Man  shall  speak  and  woman  be  mute, 

Man  shall  own  and  woman  own  not. 

Folk  shall  she  bear  to  fill  the  land. 

The  sons  shall  rule,  the  daughters  serve, 

The  sons  shall  speak,  the  daughters  be  mute, 

The  sons  shall  own,  the  daughters  not. 

For  the  sons  are  Arzan,  the  daughters  Izd!'" 

Ramiki  ceased  his  singing.  His  heart  was  freed,  and  he 
felt  relief  and  escape,  and  a  cheerful  largeness  of  mood.  The 
anger  against  Halmis  was  fallen.  There  even  stole  again 
over  his  being  a  fondness  for  that  prophetess.  The  energy 
that  had  boiled  within,  thick  and  murky  red,  had  been 
beautifully  worked  off  by  the  late  improvisation.  Diffused 
and  expanded  through  quite  vast  ranges,  it  was  no  longer 
an  aching  and  concentrated  desire  to  pay  Halmis  back  and 
to  make  evident  his  own  superiority.  He  became  conscious 
of  a  tranquillity,  of  something  like  vision  above  vision.  .  .  . 
Through  this  pushed  suddenly  up,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
lily  in  a  pond,  a  willingness,  a  desire,  that  Halmis  should 
keep  the  red  band  upon  her  forehead,  that  she  should  go, 
if  she  would,  like  a  young  man,  walking  alone!  But  he  had 
made  it  too  late  for  that! 

The  people  of  the  river-plain  thought  it  best  that  women 
should  break  no  more  tabus.  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  AMAZON 

THE  country  of  the  Amazonian  women  ran  in  deep 
mountain  gorges  back  from  the  sea  to  a  tableland  and  cer 
tain  forested  peaks.  At  the  foot  of  the  gorge  spread  salt 
meadows,  flat  and  green,  overbreathed  by  the  fragrant  sea 
wind.  Here  was  capital  pasturage,  and  here  on  a  day  came 
down  from  the  plateau  a  dozen  mounted  women  driving 
before  them  flock  and  herd.  The  day  was  warm,  the  mead 
ows  bright.  These  gave  to  shining  sands,  the  sands  to 
sapphire  sea.  Behind  the  level  green  sprang  the  wood.  Low 
ing  and  bleating,  cattle  and  sheep  came  to  the  grass.  The 
drovers  saw  all  disposed,  then,  hot  and  tired  with  much 
work  from  dawn  till  noon,  dismounted,  fastened  their 
horses  in  the  wood  and  went  down  to  the  sea.  Having 
bathed,  with  laughter  and  play,  they  stretched  themselves 
upon  the  sand  and  opened  a  great  wallet  that  held  bread 
and  dried  meat,  and  untied  the  mouth  of  a  wine  skin. 

Their  town  was  built  three  leagues  away,  in  a  cup  of  the 
mountain  excellently  guarded  by  grey  crags.  They  thought 
that  it  had  always  been  there,  though  indeed  the  old  wise 
women  said  no.  They  said  that  their  mothers  had  told 
them  that  their  mothers*  mothers  had  heard  of  a  time  when 
there  was  a  battle  at  the  edge  of  the  world,  and  that  then 
fifty  women,  fleeing,  had  climbed  to  these  mountains  and 
here  built  a  town  and  kept  ancient  customs.  These  were 
the  ancestresses  and  divine!  However  that  might  be,  here 
was  now  the  town  and  the  people.  A  queen  ruled  them. 


140  THE   WANDERERS 

On  certain  ritual  days  of  the  year  they  had  intercourse 
with  men  of  two  neighbouring  nations.  Of  the  children  born 
they  kept  the  girls,  but  when  the  boys  had  seen  twelve 
summers  they  sent  these  to  the  father  nation.  Year  by 
year  their  ways  of  life,  at  first  not  so  strange,  grew  to  seem 
strange  and  stranger  yet  to  the  peoples  who  heard  of  them 
and  elaborated  and  legended  what  they  heard.  To  them 
selves  it  was  old  nature,  very  right  and  proper,  dear, 
familiar  life! 

The  drovers  lying  upon  the  sand,  between  the  blue  sea 
and  the  salt  meadow,  were  all  on  the  younger  side  of  prime. 
Among  them  was  Lindane,  the  Queen's  daughter.  The 
sea-wind  caressed  them,  they  heard  the  contented  voices 
and  movements  of  the  grazing  beasts,  they  had  bread  and 
red  wine  and  sweet  rest.  When  they  had  eaten  they  posted 
two  watchers,  and  the  rest  closed  their  eyes. 

To  the  left  of  where  they  lay  dipped  into  the  sea  a  hook 
of  land,  a  long,  crooked  finger  of  Mother  Earth.  The 
watchers  looked  inland  toward  the  wealth  in  the  meadows, 
the  horses  fastened  in  the  wood.  The  world  hereabouts 
went  little  to  sea;  the  sea  made  no  danger  save  to  small 
fishing  craft  in  rough  weather.  The  watchers  never  saw 
until  too  late  the  long,  dark  boat,  fifty-oared,  with  sails 
beside,  with  carven  prow,  that  stole  around  the  crooked 
finger.  .  .  .  The  watchers  heard  the  sails  when  they  rattled 
down,  and  sharply  turned  to  see  the  prow  touch  the  sand 
and  the  men  leap  forth  —  and  all  so  close  the  eyes  might 
be  seen!  "Awake!  Awake!"  cried  the  watchers  and 
snatched  bow  and  quiver.  The  ten  sprang  up,  seized 
weapons;  all  raced  for  the  wood  and  those  tied  steeds. 
Close  after  them,  with  shouts,  came  the  sea-rovers. 

There  were  fifty  and  five  strong  young  men,  strong  and 


THE  AMAZON  141 

untamed  as  eagles,  swoopers  from  islands  below  the  hori 
zon.  The  chief  was  Sandanis.  Elsewhere  upon  the  far- 
stretching  mainland  coast  they  had  lifted  spoil  in  their 
talons,  robbing  towns  that  spoke  a  dialect  akin  to  their  own. 
The  long  boat  held  wrought  gold  and  brass,  rich  woven 
goods,  strange  weapons,  objects  of  value.  Here  upon  this 
strand  was  stopping  only  to  fill  the  water  casks.  But 
when  they  saw  the  sleeping  forms  the  sea-eagles  again  set 
beak  and  talon. 

At  first  they  did  not  know  the  twelve  for  women,  for 
they  were  not  habited  like  the  women  of  the  islands  or  of 
any  country  that  the  sea-rovers  knew,  and  they  were  tall 
and  deeply  bronzed,  and  they  showed  a  practised  hand 
with  javelin  and  with  bow  and  arrow.  They  ran  like  deer, 
and  the  sea-rovers  ran  at  their  heels.  They  menaced  the 
pursuit  as  they  ran,  then,  reaching  the  wood,  plunged  past 
tree  and  swinging  vines  to  the  tethered  horses.  They 
waited  not  to  untie,  but  each  stripping  knife  from  sheath, 
severed  the  bridle  and  sprang  to  steed.  One  further  minute 
and  they  might  have  shown  clean  heels,  won  away  to  their 
mountain  fastness.  But  the  fifty  were  on  them,  keen  as 
winter  wolves,  knife-armed,  javelin-armed,  knowing  their 
quarry  now  for  the  famed  women !  A  hundred  hands 
caught  at  bridle  and  mane,  or  used  knife  or  flung  javelin 
against  the  horses.  Of  these  several  sank  to  earth,  others, 
rearing,  beat  with  their  hooves  at  the  foe.  One  only 
escaped,  making  with  its  rider  at  a  furious  gallop  for  the 
trail,  the  upward-running  gorge  and  the  crag-guarded 
town. 

Yet  mounted  or  with  foot  upon  the  ground,  the  remain 
ing  Amazons  fought  for  life  and  freedom.  They  fought 
with  knife  and  shortened  javelin,  being  unable  to  use  bow 


H2  THE   WANDERERS 

and  arrow  in  the  close  conflict.  They  fought  strongly,  with 
skill,  with  desperation  and  tenacious  courage.  Lives  were 
lost  from  among  the  sea-rovers,  bitter  wounds  were  given. 
But  the  sea-rovers  were  fifty  and  they  who  had  brought 
the  cattle  to  the  salt  meadows  were  twelve.  And  one  was 
gone  and  two  were  slain  and  two  had  death  hurts.  The 
seven  that  were  left  were  overpowered,  dragged  to  earth 
and  bound  with  thongs  and  cords. 

Lindane,  the  Queen's  daughter,  fought  with  Sandanis, 
the  king  of  the  sea-rovers,  a  second  strong  man  giving  him 
needed  help.  It  took  the  two  to  bind  her.  Sandanis's  hands 
upon  her  wrists,  the  other's  against  her  shoulders,  they 
forced  her  down  the  sands,  they  lifted  and  flung  her  over 
the  boat  side.  All  the  seven  were  brought  to  the  boat  and 
guarded  there  while  the  sea-rovers  gathered  wood  and 
burned  their  dead. 

The  sea-rovers  drew  out  to  no  great  length  the  details  of 
that  rite.  In  their  minds  was  a  humming  thought  of  the 
fled  Amazon  and  of  possible  rescue.  Kindling  the  pyre, 
they  left  it  blazing  there,  at  the  edge  of  the  wood.  A  fore- 
wind  had  sprung  up  and  they  took  advantage.  Making  sail 
in  haste,  they  left  behind  the  golden  sands  and  the  salt 
meadows  and  the  dark,  mounting  forests  of  that  land. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  moon  came  up.  The  women 
yet  lay  where  they  had  been  flung.  Then  Lindane  rose  to 
her  knees,  and  with  her  two  or  three  of  the  more  resilient 
sort.  They  looked  astern,  and  by  the  light  of  the  great  full 
moon  saw,  sinking  from  them,  their  country-shore  and  all 
it  held  of  home  and  friends.  Lindane,  straining  at  her 
bonds,  broke  them,  and  with  her  doubled  hands  struck 
Sandanis  that  was  nearest  to  her.  Sandanis,  thinking  him 
self  conqueror,  laughed.  He  seized  the  Amazon's  wrists, 


THE  AMAZON  143 

struggled  with  her,  and  nodded  to  his  helper  to  wrap  the 
thong  about  her  arms.  Enmeshed  again,  she  turned  her 
head  and  prayed  to  the  sea. 

When  the  moon  was  an  hour  high  they  came  to  an  islet 
known  to  be  desolate,  a  mere  hand's  breadth  of  waste  sand 
and  rock,  blanched  by  the  moon.  The  favourable  wind  had 
fallen,  and  the  rowers  wished  not  to  row  through  this  night. 
They  pushed  prow  upon  the  shelving  sand,  they  left  the 
boat  and  took  with  them  those  captured  women.  They 
had  store  of  meat  and  wine.  They  ate  and  drank,  sitting 
in  the  moonlight  upon  the  sand,  above  the  murmuring  sea, 
and  they  set  food  and  drink  before  their  captives.  Their 
tongue  and  the  women's  tongue  had  one  origin.  Victor 
and  vanquished  understood  much  of  each  other's  speech. 
"Eat,  drink!"  said  the  sea-rovers.  "Our  country  is  going 
to  be  your  country."  When  they  themselves  had  finished 
their  meal,  then,  with  noise  and  laughter,  they  cast  lots. 
The  moon  shone  very  brightly,  a  soft  daylight  seemed  to 
visit  the  place. 

Sandanis  was  the  island  king.  He  cast  no  lot,  but  made 
his  choice  at  once,  and  her  he  chose  was  for  the  king  alone. 
"I  take  the  flame-top,"  he  said. 

The  king's  comrades  laughed  and  clamoured.  "O  San 
danis,  she  will  turn  thee  red  too!  She  is  demon!" 

"I  am  her  demon  bridegroom,"  said  Sandanis  with 
answering  laughter.  "I  have  come  from  afar  to  her!" 

The  moon  climbed  to  her  meridian,  and  all  the  islet  was 
bathed  in  light.  It  was  light  upon  the  beach  where  life  lay, 
shaped  into  men  and  women;  it  was  light  where  the  sea- 
rovers'  king  held  between  his  arms  Lindane  whom  he  had 
bound.  The  dawn  when  it  came  hardly  made  it  seem  more 
light.  The  dawn  reddened,  burned  scarlet  in  sea  and  in 


144  THE   WANDERERS 

sky.  The  wide-winged  birds  sailed  and  circled  and  with 
harsh  voices  uttered  their  cry  to  the  morning.  The  sun 
sprang  out  of  the  sea,  and  he  was  red  and  strong.  Sandanis 
and  his  companions  once  more  bestowed  those  captive 
women  in  the  boat  and  pushing  from  the  desolate  isle, 
themselves  leaped  in  and  lifted  oars.  The  favourable  wind 
sprang  forth  again;  they  hoisted  sails  and  steered  for  the 
island  that  they  called  home. 

Five  days  they  sailed  or  rowed  as  the  wind  sent  them  on 
or  failed  them.  The  second  night  Lindane's  teeth  met  in 
Sandanis's  shoulder.  In  return  he  struck  her  so  mighty  a 
blow  that  she  lay  stunned,  the  moonlight  blanching  her 
backward-drawn  face.  Sandanis,  regarding  her,  felt  he 
knew  not  what  of  ruth.  He  bathed  his  own  wound  with 
wine  and  he  forced  wine  between  the  Amazon's  lips.  She 
stirred,  opened  her  eyes  and  raised  herself  upon  her  hand. 
"Flame-top!"  he  said,  "where  did  you  learn  to  bite  so 
hard?" 

But "  Let  me  go ! "  was  all  her  answer.  "  Let  me  go ! "  and 
the  ruth  passed  for  that  time  from  his  heart. 

When  the  sixth  morning  broke  it  showed  the  island.  The 
sea-rovers  broke  into  a  chant  of  rejoicing  for  home,  but  the 
women  they  had  rapt  away  looked  on  a  picture  of  their 
own  home,  their  home  that  the  morning  did  not  show. 

Limestone  cliffs  had  the  island  with  woods  climbing  to 
mountain  pastures,  and  above  these  a  rounded  mountain- 
top.  Many  springs  it  had,  and  sunny  glades,  and  deep 
ravines  where  the  shade  was  black.  Huge  spreading  trees 
it  had,  and  blossomy  meads  and  hillsides  planted  with  the 
vine,  and  fields  of  waving  grain.  It  owned  sheep  and  goats 
and  oxen,  horses  and  herds  of  swine,  fed  by  the  each-year- 
renewed  rain  of  beech-nut  and  acorn.  Coming  to  the  hu- 


THE  AMAZON  145 

man,  herdsmen  were  there,  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
and  tillers  of  the  earth,  both  men  and  women.  Artisans 
also  the  island  held,  though  not  so  many  of  these.  But 
carpenter,  mason,  and  smith  were  there,  shipwright  and 
bowyer  and  others  beside.  And  old  prowess  in  such  lines 
and  now  old  custom  had  given  these  and  like  crafts  to  men. 
Certain  crafts  leaned  to  women  and  women  were  traders-in- 
little.  Household  offices  fell  to  women,  and  women  ground 
at  the  mills,  and  all  the  garments,  whether  for  use  or  orna 
ment  that  the  people  wore,  were  of  their  weaving  and  fash 
ioning,  and  the  food  they  prepared  and  cooked,  and  in  their 
hands  was  the  cleanliness  of  all,  and  they  kept  alight  the 
fires.  Also  they  bore  and  long  suckled  the  children,  and 
gave  them  their  early  training. 

Above  the  mass  of  the  island  population,  men  and 
women,  bond  and  free,  stood  in  self-seized  and  self-con 
firmed  rank  the  warlike  sort,  the  fillers  of  long  boats,  the 
sea-eagles  swooping  upon  other  islands  and  the  shadowy 
mainland,  traders-in-great  on  occasion,  raptors  of  goods 
and  of  lives  when  that  better  suited.  Out  of  this  body  of 
war  men,  young  and  in  prime  and  old,  had  risen  by  degrees 
the  elder-wise,  the  firm  and  politic,  to  become  a  council  and 
point  the  road  their  history  should  tread,  and  at  last  from 
captains,  chiefs,  and  counsellors  had  come  the  chief  of 
chiefs,  the  casting  voice,  the  king.  And  all  these  were  men, 
and  when  they  died  they  left  to  their  sons.  Next  in  caste 
stood  the  attendants  and  ministers  and  interpreters  of  the 
gods,  and  these  were  men  and  women,  as  the  gods  them 
selves  were  male  and  female.  But,  aided  by  that  topmost 
caste,  the  priest  was  gaining  over  the  priestess,  the  god 
over  the  goddess.  The  highest  god,  the  ruler  of  the  rest, 
was  held  to  be  by  nature  male.  In  the  island,  man  and 


146  THE  WANDERERS 

woman  professed  to  heal  the  body.  But  the  dominant 
wind  blew  for  the  man-physician  and  against  the  woman. 
Both  men  and  women  made  minstrelsy,  and  men  and 
women  wove  the  dance.  But  in  the  island  they  that  bore 
rule  and  heaped  together  the  fruit  of  war  and  directed 
public  action  were  men.  And  the  servants  of  the  gods 
that  were  strongest  to  persuade  or  to  awe  were  men. 

To  this  island  came  the  Amazon. 

The  cliffs  lifted  higher,  the  green  grew  brighter,  the  sea- 
eagles  saw  their  harbour  and  its  small  white  quay,  and 
their  town  on  the  hill  above  the  sea,  saw  the  folk  hastening 
down  from  the  gates.  They  raised  a  home-coming  song, 
welcoming  shouts  rang  from  the  water-side.  The  boat 
flew  on  with  sail  and  oar.  The  sails  rattled  down,  the  oars 
sent  it  forward,  it  lay  beside  the  gleaming,  landing  place. 
Arms  were  outstretched,  there  prevailed  a  leaning  down, 
a  springing  up,  shouts,  vaunts,  welcomes,  a  swarm  of 
bodies,  a  humming  of  the  mind.  Here  was  home-in-tri- 
umph  for  the  sea-eagles;  here  was  land-of-captivity  for  the 
women  from  that  old  continent. 

The  house  of  Sandanis!  That  was  a  very  great  house 
according  to  the  notions  of  the  island  and  the  time.  It 
was  filled  with  bond  and  free,  but  with  more  of  the  bond 
than  the  free.  When  they  reached  it,  built  above  the  town, 
and  entered  a  court  that  enclosed  for  shade  two  vast  syca 
mores,  forth  from  the  inner  rooms  to  meet  her  son  came 
the  widowed  woman,  the  old  island  queen.  With  her 
moved  her  two  daughters,  Lindace  and  Ardis,  and  behind 
them  pressed  the  women  of  the  household. 

The  king's  men  who  had  robbed  with  the  king  took  each 
to  his  own  house  his  share  of  the  spoil  that  had  been  heaped 


THE  AMAZON  147 

in  the  king's  court  and  portioned  there.  Brass  and  gold 
had  been  heaped,  and  weapons  and  implements  and  rich 
stuffs  and  adornments,  and  among  these  had  place  the 
captives  from  that  ancient  strand.  With  a  beating  of 
voices  a  crowd  entered  the  court.  Sun  and  shade  struggled 
there.  Women  were  weighed  against  gold  and  brass.  All 
things  were  parted  and  in  the  mean  time  the  feast  was  made 
and  set  in  Sandanis's  hall.  Bondsmen  took  away  to  each 
sea-rover's  house  his  chosen  spoil.  To  the  six  of  greatest 
fame  went  the  six  Amazons,  companions  of  Lindane.  But 
in  the  court,  beneath  the  hugest  sycamore,  yet  rested  the 
gold  and  brass,  the  weapons,  the  rich  stuff  and  the  woman 
set  apart  to  Sandanis  the  king.  The  crowd  of  the  uncon- 
sidered  dwindled.  The  chief  men  passed  with  Sandanis  into 
his  kingly  hall,  there  to  feast  and  carouse  and  recite  mighty 
deeds. 

The  island  folk  had  looked  with  curiosity  upon  those 
stranger  women,  unlike  other  women,  different  from  what 
the  gods  had  created  women  to  be!  Hands  had  touched 
them,  voices  had  beaten  against  them.  But  now  six  of  the 
seven  had  been  taken  away,  and  all  the  crowd  was  dwin 
dling.  There  came  and  stood  before  the  Amazon  shared  to 
the  king  three  priests  of  the  island,  priests  of  a  warlike  god 
who  was  become  the  chief  deity.  One  was  a  man  past  mid 
dle-age,  a  dark  enthusiast.  The  other  two  were  younger. 

"Woman-out-of-nature,"  said  the  first,  "who  is  your 
country-god?" 

Lindane  sat  silent  among  goods  and  weapons  and  cun 
ningly  wrought  matters  in  silver  and  brass  and  gold.  "  She 
is  dumb,"  said  those  who  had  gathered  behind  the  priests. 
"Maybe  the  king  has  cut  out  her  tongue!" 

"Speak,  man-woman!"  said  the  second  priest,  inferior 


148  THE   WANDERERS 

to  the  first.  "Who  is  the  god  of  your  country?  Whoever 
he  be  he  is  less  than  our  god!" 

"They  have,"  said  one  behind,  "a  goddess  only,  no 
god!" 

"Woman  and  captive,  answer  the  chief  priest!"  said  the 
youngest  priest,  and  he  turned  red  as  he  spoke. 

But  the  Amazon  did  not  answer.  The  chief  priest's  look 
darkened  over  her.  "Not  to  us  the  offence,  but  to  the 
god!"  he  said;  and  turning  with  the  two,  went  away. 

The  press  in  the  king's  court  further  lessened.  Came, 
threading  her  way  through  the  groups,  an  old  handmaid, 
one  named  Eunica.  She  spoke  to  Lindane.  "My  mis 
tresses,  the  old  queen  and  her  daughters,  would  have 
speech  with  you,  Amazon!" 

Lindane  followed  her  across  the  court  and  by  a  passage 
to  a  steep  stair,  and  so  to  an  upper  room  lined  with  oak. 
Here  sat  the  old  queen  with  a  silver  distaff  in  her  hands, 
and  beside  her  a  basket  of  coloured  wool.  The  daughters 
sat  near  her  on  cushions,  and  they,  too,  had  distaffs,  and  in 
the  back  of  the  room  handmaids  wove  at  a  mighty  loom. 

Spoke  the  old  queen.  "  Stranger  woman,  were  you  bond 
or  free  before  my  son  the  king  took  you?" 

Said  Lindane,  "  My  mother  is  the  queen  of  my  country." 

"Then  you  shall  have,"  answered  the  old  queen,  "an 
ivory  distaff  to  spin  with.  There  are  here  three  daughters 
of  kings,  and  they  all  have  ivory  distaffs.  Sit  down  and 
spin." 

There  was  but  an  hour  to  spin  before  dusk  fell,  with  sup 
per  for  that  great  house.  All  descended  from  the  upper 
room,  but  they  did  not  eat,  that  eve,  in  hall,  because  the 
king  and  his  chief  men  were  feasting  there,  and  wine,  wine, 
wine  was  flowing. 


THE  AMAZON  149 

In  Sandanis's  hall  the  torchlight  was  bright,  but  through 
the  rest  of  the  house  it  flared  dim.  At  last  the  Amazon 
came  to  a  place  where  was  hardly  any  light,  to  a  cell  in  the 
wall  where  she  would  sleep  that  night  with  Eunica,  the  old 
handmaid.  So  near  was  it  to  the  great  central  room  of  the 
house  that  there  might  be  heard  in  waves  the  mingled 
voices  of  the  feasting  men.  What  light  there  was  seemed 
to  come  from  that  place  of  triumph,  stealing  through 
cracks  in  the  wall. 

Eunica  had  a  bed  of  straw  spread  with  sheepskins.  The 
two  bondwomen  sat  upon  it,  in  the  cell  narrow  as  a 
tomb. 

"I  was  the  daughter  of  a  king,"  said  old  Eunica.  "San- 
danis's  father  brought  me  here.  Then  I  was  young  like 
you,  but  my  hair  was  never  red  like  yours.  The  old  queen 
was  young,  too.  She  made  herself  a  terror  to  me,  but 
Myrtus  cared  more  for  my  hand  than  he  did  for  her  whole 
body.  But  Myrtus  died.  Long,  long  ago,  Myrtus  died. 
.  .  .  Sandanis  was  to  have  wed  the  king's  sister  of  the  next 
island.  But  the  maiden  perished  at  sea,  being  brought  here 
by  her  brothers.  Now  there  is  talk  of  a  bride  from  another 
island.  When  she  comes,  if  Sandanis  yet  holds  you  in  lik 
ing,  she  will  hate  you.  She  will  find  occasion  against  you. 
When  Sandanis  likes  you  no  longer,  then,  if  you  break  a 
water-jar,  or  if  there  is  a  knot  in  your  weaving,  she  will 
have  you  beaten.  And  when  Sandanis  likes  you  no  longer, 
he  will  not  care  —  he  will  not  lift  a  finger  to  help  you!" 

"Sandanis.  .  .  .  That  is  his  voice  now  in  the  hall.  It  is 
as  though  the  sea  were  behind  me  and  about  and  before. 
.  .  .  Ah,  Sandanis!  I  hate  thee!" 

"Hate  or  love,  be  wolf  or  dog  —  by  all  the  dark  gods, 
what  does  it  matter?"  said  Eunica. 


150  THE   WANDERERS 

"Has  it  been  always,  in  your  earth,  that  a  man  could  do 
so  with  a  woman?" 

"Always  that  ever  I  heard  of,"  answered  Eunica.  "I 
do  not  know  where  time  goes  to,  behind  us." 

"Will  not  the  women  conspire  and  slay  them?" 

But  Eunica  laughed  at  that.  "When  creatures  are 
tamed,  the  power  to  bound  and  to  rend  is  there  and  is  not 
there!" 

"Now,  by  the  goddess!   I  would  untame  them!" 

Eunica  laughed  again.  "Then,  to  show  the  way,  each 
must  rend  its  own  hunter!  Now  I  had  Milon  by  Myrtus, 
and  I  could  not  rend  Myrtus.  —  I  have  wonder  if  you 
would  rend  King  Sandanis." 

Rising,  she  moved  to  the  wall  and  with  her  fingers  loos 
ened  a  wedge  of  wood,  broad  as  an  axe-head.  The  cell  be 
came  more  light,  the  sound  of  revel  fuller  and  more  plain. 
The  old  handmaid  came  back  to  the  pallet.  In  the  hall 
they  sang  war  the  glorious,  the  chief  exalted,  the  warlike 
gods.  They  sang  man-strength  and  what  they  called  free 
dom.  They  sang  the  rape  of  gold  and  land,  the  rape  of 
women  and  the  rape  of  lives.  The  harp-strings  were  struck, 
wine  flowed,  men  beat  fist  against  board.  With  flashing 
eyes,  with  eloquence  of  gesture,  starting  to  their  feet,  men 
declaimed  their  virtues.  All  through  the  king's  house  was 
listening;  up  and  down  ran  an  hypnotized,  inner  murmur 
ing.  "It  must  be  so.  It  must  be  so." 

The  night  passed,  and  the  next  day  and  night,  other 
days  and  other  nights.  Sandanis  the  king  and  Lindane 
from  the  Amazon  country  drew  together,  dragged  apart, 
and  neither  knew  at  times  whether  a  passion  of  love  or  a 
passion  of  hatred  was  what  their  souls  meant.  .  .  . 

In  this  island  stood  a  principal  fane,  built  to  the  god  of 


THE  AMAZON  151 

the  sea-rovers,  in  a  wood  that  topped  a  cliff  that  fell  sheer 
to  a  foaming  sea.  Here  came  Sandanis  and  his  following 
to  sacrifice,  and  to  hear  from  the  dark  priest  who  lived  by 
the  fane  if  a  bride  from  the  island  that  on  clear  days  might 
be  seen  afar  would  bring  luck  to  the  king's  house,  binding 
in  amity  Sandanis  and  the  king  of  that  land.  The  wood 
was  dark,  the  poplars  shook  in  a  whistling  wind,  the  priest 
divined,  and  brought  the  king  an  answer  from  the  god. 
"The  bride  will  bring  fortune  if  the  prow  of  the  ship  sent 
to  bring  her  is  touched  with  the  life  of  the  king's  latest 
prey." 

Sandanis  heard.  "That  would  mean,"  he  said,  "the 
bulls  I  took  from  the  herdsmen  of  the  red  island."  And  he 
sent  for  the  bulls  and  sacrificed  them. 

That  done  with  due  ceremonies,  a  fifty-oared  ship,  the 
prow  smeared  with  bull's  blood,  quitted  quay  and  harbour 
for  the  myriad-painted  sea  and  the  island  like  a  little  cloud 
upon  the  horizon.  No  great  number  of  days  and  back  it 
came,  broken-winged,  less  twenty  of  its  oarsmen.  No  bride 
was  with  it,  but  a  story  of  disaster,  sudden  inexplicable 
enmity  of  that  island  folk,  found  arrayed  against  them 
when  they  landed.  .  .  .  There  arose  a  murmur  in  King 
Sandanis's  town. 

Said  Sandanis  in  council,  "That  island  woman  is  not 
fair,  and  her  brother  who  is  king  much  resembles  a  quick 
sand.  As  well  not  treat  with  him,  nor  be  called  his 
friend!" 

The  cattle  of  the  island  fell  sick.  From  every  dell  and 
meadow  and  mountain  pasture  came  herdsmen  ominously 
shaking  the  head,  bringing  to  the  town  one  tale.  A  sol 
emn  procession  wound,  men  and  women,  and  the  king  at 
the  head,  up  to  the  fane  above  the  sea.  The  god  was  pro- 


1 52  THE   WANDERERS 

pitiated;  the  priest,  a  poplar  wand  in  his  hand,  stood  as  in 
a  trance,  then  opened  his  mouth  and  gave  forth  the  words 
of  the  god.  "The  cattle  will  grow  strong  when  the  horns 
of  a  black,  a  white,  and  a  red  bull  are  touched  with  the 
life  of  the  king's  latest  prey." 

The  crowd  murmured  like  the  sacred  grove.  "That 
would  mean,"  said  Sandanis,  "the  hare  that  yesterday  ran 
through  the  court  and  was  taken  from  under  my  cloak 
where  it  lay  on  the  ground."  And  he  sent  for  the  hare  and 
sacrificed  it,  and  touched  the  horns  of  the  bulls  with  the 
blood.  Likewise  he  gave  to  the  god  three  great  pots  of 
brass  and  an  image  of  silver. 

That  was  one  day.  The  next  he  took  bow  and  quiver 
and  with  eight  companions  went  hunting  in  the  forest  that 
stretched  to  the  mountain-top.  "  I  will  shoot  stag  or  doe 
that  shall  be  latest  prey,"  said  Sandanis  to  himself.  But,  go 
ing,  a  prodigy  occurred.  The  sky  blackened,  then  lightning 
rived  an  oak  before  him,  and  the  spread  of  the  bolt  caused 
the  king  to  reel,  and  made  as  dead  for  an  hour  right  arm 
and  right  knee.  The  eight  wove  a  litter  of  branches  and 
brought  him  down  through  the  forest.  In  sight  of  the 
king's  house  vigour  returned,  and  he  stepped  from  the 
litter  and  made  them  scatter  the  branches.  But  he  spoke 
no  more  of  hunting,  but  held  silence  and  a  knitted  brow. 
Entering  the  house,  he  went  into  his  chamber  and  shut 
ting  out  all,  lay  there  in  darkness  and  strife  of  mind.  The 
eight,  parting  from  the  king,  were  not  silent. 

The  cattle  continued  to  sicken  and  to  die.  A  monstrous 
hailstorm  came  and  cut  down  the  wheat  and  beat  into 
ruin  the  clusters  of  young  grapes.  The  fishermen  of  the 
island  took  few  fish  in  their  nets  and  those  not  the  ones 
desired.  At  last  the  people  said  openly,  "The  king's  latest 


THE  AMAZON  153 

prey,  that  he  took  with  his  two  hands,  who  is  it  but  that 
woman  from  the  Amazon  country?" 

Sandanis,  in  his  house,  listened  to  the  chief  priest  of  the 
island,  and  he  listened  with  a  hunted  mind  and  a  divided 
will.  "Man  cannot  avoid  the  god!"  warned  the  dark 
priest.  "If  the  god's  hand  points  to  this  abhorrent  and 
barbarian  woman,  will  King  Sandanis  say  him  nay?" 

"And  if  I  did?"  said  Sandanis. 

The  priest  rose  and  stood  in  the  shadowy  place.  The 
king  of  men,  the  priest  of  the  gods  —  these  two  were,  or 
seemed  to  be,  the  greatest  of  the  shapes  that  trod  the  earth ! 
The  king-shape  appeared  to  have  sinew  and  bulk,  the  priest- 
shape  height.  Sometimes  the  king-shape  twisted  the  neck 
of  the  priest-shape,  but  ever  the  next  hour  it  rose  the  same. 
Sometimes  the  priest-shape  made  the  king-shape  creep  upon 
the  earth,  but  never  could  it  keep  it  there.  Sometimes  the 
two  were  friends,  and  though  they  used  differing  darts, 
pursued  the  same  quarry.  Sometimes  the  two  were  one, 
priest-kings.  In  the  countries  where  that  was  so  the  ruler- 
shape  had  power  indeed.  ...  In  this  island  of  the  blue  sea 
king  and  priest  were  two.  But  the  priest  had  in  his  quiver 
awe  of  the  huge  supernatural.  And  all  shapes,  king-shapes 
and  others,  deeply  feared  those  arrows,  dipped  in  juices 
not  of  earth. 

When  now  the  chief  priest  stood  in  the  dusk  of  the 
king's  chamber,  Sandanis  saw  the  bow  in  his  hands  and 
the  arrow  headed  against  himself.  "King  Sandanis!  King 
Sandanis!  The  god  will  part  your  house  from  you,  all  your 
friends  and  your  island — " 

Sandanis,  sitting  upon  his  couch,  clenched  hands  upon 
the  wrought  cedar.  The  chief  priest  felt  for  and  found  a 
master  arrow,  and  found  it  the  sooner  for  that  he,  also,  at 


154  THE   WANDERERS 

times,  knew  lands  deeper  than  the  land  of  worldly  loss.  He 
towered,  he  became  the  invulnerable  Archer.  "Are  you 
more  great,  O  man!  than  God?  Are  you  more  wise  than 
the  Immortal?  Do  you  withstand ?  Then  your  part  in  him 
will  dissolve  like  a  cloud!  It  will  pass  like  a  cry  when  he  is 
not  listening!" 

A  seabird  went  by  the  king's  door  with  a  whistling  cry. 
Rose  the  priest's  voice,  "A  portent!  —  A  portent! — " 

Men  took  and  bound  the  Amazon  in  the  king's  house. 
The  priests  made  proclamation  of  a  great  and  solemn 
procession  to  the  fane  and  the  altar  above  the  sea.  That 
was  to  be  in  the  morning.  In  the  deep  middle  of  the  night 
stole  King  Sandanis  to  the  room  hollowed  in  stone  where 
there  was  wont  to  be  kept  the  sacrifice  until  the  east  was 
red. 

The  two  men  without  the  door  said  naught,  but  rested 
on  the  earth,  their  heads  wrapped  in  their  mantles.  The 
king  went  in,  and  there  were  two  torches,  burning  gold- 
coloured  and  straight,  and  between  them,  bound  to  a  stone 
sat  Lindane. 

Sandanis  took  station  opposite.  "Lindane!  Lindane!" 

Lindane  opened  her  eyes.  "Thou  who  would  slay  me! 
Are  there  no  queens  and  priestesses  to  draw  breath  and 
cry  ' Save'?" 

"Queens  are  but  kings'  wives  or  mothers.  If  the  god 
says  'Sacrifice!'  will  the  priestesses  say  him  nay?" 

"The  god!  O  Thou-who-bringest-forth !  where  art  thou, 
my  goddess?" 

"Lindane,  I  love  thee  —  and  yet  thou  must  die!" 

"O  Earth!  this  love!" 

"  Such  as  love  is  on  earth,  I  have  it  for  thee." 

"Maybe  so,"  answered  the  Amazon.    "I   have  been 


THE  AMAZON  155 

weary  of  the  sun  since  you  took  me  by  numbers  on  my 
own  sea-strand." 

"By  strength  of  my  own  arm,  also!" 
"Strong  arm,  dull  wit,  unjust  heart!" 
"O  woman,  are  you  so  different  from  me?" 
"If  I  had  here  an  apple,"  said  Lindane,  "I  would  cut  it 
in  two,  and  give  Sandanis  half,  keeping  half  myself.  The 
two  halves  would  not  be  different,  but  the  king  would  have 
one,  and  a  slave  for  the  sacrifice  the  other!" 

Sandanis  came  nearer  to  her.  They  kept  silence  in  the 
rock-hewn  place,  then  the  island  king  uttered  a  cry.  "When 
we  fought  that  day  in  the  wood  by  the  salt  meadow,  yea,  by 
the  god!  when  I  sent  a  javelin  through  the  neck  of  your 
great  white  horse  and  dragged  you  down,  it  was  as  though 
many  times  we  had  fought  and  loved  before!" 

"Much  fighting,  little  loving.  —  O  my  mother!  O  my 
queen!" 

"Thou  art  for  the  sacrifice.  I  may  not  touch  thee  to  help 
thee.  The  god  has  said  it." 

"O  Earth!  This  love  that  a  god  can  make  to  be  put  off 
and  on  like  a  garment!" 

"Unless  a  king  were  god,  he  could  not  help  — " 
"And  would  he  then?  .  .  .  O  my  goddess,  hear  me!" 
"The  god's  word  is  over  every  goddess.  .  .  .  Lindane 
that  diest,  live  if  thou  canst!" 

"The  grey  rock  town  upon  the  grey  mountains- — " 
"I  that  thought  it  was  sweet,  find  it  bitter  to  be 
king-" 

"O  my  goddess!  Back  to  me  comes  every  sin.  .  .  .  The 
cock  is  crowing!" 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  men  without.  King  San 
danis  hid  head  and  face  in  his  mantle  and  went  from  the 


156  THE   WANDERERS 

rock  chamber,  hallowed  to  the  sacrifice.  The  cock  crew 
again,  the  dawn  opened  slowly,  like  a  red  flower. 

The  processions  formed  in  the  town,  in  the  country  side, 
before  the  king's  high  house.  The  participants  carried  a 
sacred  torch,  they  carried  images  of  the  god,  they  carried 
baskets  of  flowers  and  burning  incense.  Music  went  with 
them.  The  priests  and  King  Sandanis  walked  at  the  head, 
and  behind  them  walked  the  Amazon.  "Now  the  god  will 
smile  upon  us!"  sang  the  people.  "For  here  is  the  king's 
latest  prey!" 

In  the  wood,  before  the  image  of  the  god,  upon  the  altar, 
they  took  the  life  of  the  sacrifice,  and  they  touched  with  it 
the  prows  of  the  ships  in  the  harbour,  and  the  horns  of 
bulls,  red,  white  and  black. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK 

BABYLON,  builded  of  brick,  lay  four-square  in  its  fat 
plain.  Fields  of  the  best  grain  in  the  world  shimmered  out 
and  afar,  westward,  beyond  Euphrates  to  the  desert  edge, 
eastward  to  Tigris,  to  Akkad  north,  and  south  to  the  sea 
where  stood  Eridu,  city  of  Ea,  the  old  Father-God.  Baby 
lon  was  moated,  Babylon  was  walled,  a  great,  slow  river 
ran  through  Babylon.  Houses  stood  thick  in  Babylon,  and 
the  narrow  streets  were  many,  and  every  building  was 
made  of  baked  clay,  for  there  was  little  stone  in  the  land, 
and  where  long  and  long  since  had  waved  uncounted  trees 
now  waved  the  heavy-eared  grain.  The  houses  where  the 
people  dwelled  were  small  and  low.  The  house  where  the 
king  dwelled  was  not  high,  but  huge  of  breadth,  and  brazen- 
gated.  Likewise  the  houses  of  the  gods  were  huge,  where- 
ever  they  rose  in  the  city.  And  hugest  of  all,  huge  as  two 
or  three  of  the  others  put  together,  covering  no  mere  hands' 
breadth  of  earth  floor,  spread  the  house  of  Marduk,  son 
of  Ea,  once  god  of  this  city  only,  now  strongest  god  of 
many  gods  in  a  wide  land. 

Many-courted  and  many-roomed  was  the  house  of  Mar 
duk. 

A  blue  sky  hung  over  Babylon,  and  the  sun  rode  in 
strength  with  Marduk  and  with  Sharrani  the  king.  The 
sun  and  Marduk  and  Sharrani  the  king  were  somehow 
one.  .  .  . 

Temple  wall,  palace  wall,  walls  of  tall  gateways  had  a 


158  THE   WANDERERS 

strange  and  effective  decoration  of  glazed  tiles  coloured 
blue  and  red  and  white  and  black  and  yellow.  On  the  tiles 
were  painted,  colour  against  colour,  huge  winged  men,  genii, 
together  with  great  beasts,  unicorns,  lions,  bulls.  Repeated 
and  repeated,  these  became  processions,  troops  of  crea 
tures  inside  and  outside  temple  and  palace.  Sometimes,  in 
the  heated,  quivering  air,  they  seemed  to  palpitate,  to 
move  in  their  places. 

The  vast  house  of  Marduk,  thus  coloured  and  adorned, 
reared  itself  from  a  yet  vaster  platform  of  earth  and  brick. 
Beside  it,  within  the  wide  temple  enclosure,  rose  higher 
and  higher  yet,  the  "mountain  of  the  god,"  the  tower  of 
seven  stages.  Each  stage  spread  wider,  rose  taller  than 
the  next  that  was  built  upon  it,  until  at  the  top  was  only 
the  chamber  of  the  god  and  the  pathway  around,  and  each 
stage  was  mounted  by  an  outward  stair,  a  broad,  gradual 
and  parapetted  ascent,  and  each  stage  contained  a  ritual 
number  of  rooms,  looking  out  upon  a  surrounding,  guarded 
walkway.  From  top  to  bottom  the  wall  space  glowed  with 
those  coloured  tile-pictures,  with  winged  genii,  trees  of 
life,  bull  and  lion  and  dragon.  The  sunshine  of  Babylon 
lit  them  as  with  fire  behind;  in  the  moonlight  of  Babylon 
they  still  showed.  Then  they  were  faintly-hued,  but  they 
seemed  vaster  and  more  solemn  than  in  the  daytime.  The 
"mountain  of  the  god,"  the  "lofty  house  of  Marduk," 
sprang  two  hundred  feet  and  more  above  the  low  roofs  of 
Babylon.  From  its  stages  was  watched  the  life  of  the  city, 
the  movements  on  the  plain,  the  glittering  presence  and 
solemn  actions  of  sun,  moon  and  stars. 

Iltani,  the  mother  of  Iltani,  had  died  at  Iltani's  birth. 
Lugal-naid,  her  father,  had  taken  another  wife,  Ramtu, 
who  was  kind  enough  to  Iltani,  but  a  passionate  and  cruel 


THE   PRIESTESS  OF  MARDUK         159 

mistress  to  Ina-banat  and  Belatum,  slaves  and  concubines 
of  Lugal-naid.  Iltani  dwelled  in  the  house  with  the  three 
women,  and  now  took  the  side  of  one  and  now  of  another, 
though  for  the  most  part  secretly.  Evil  would  it  be  if  any 
of  the  three,  conceiving  dislike  to  her,  should  blacken  her 
forehead  in  the  sight  of  her  father  who  owned  her  to  do 
what  he  would  with  her!  Lugal-naid  was  not  unkind,  and 
Iltani  fetched  and  carried  for  him,  and  regarded  him  with 
awe,  and  with  pride  in  his  weight  among  the  people,  for  he 
was  superintendent  of  the  temple  granaries. 

"Iltani  is  leaving  childhood,"  said  Ramtu  to  Lugal- 
naid. 

"  Let  her  be  a  little  longer,"  answered  Lugal-naid.  "  She 
is  use  and  ornament  in  the  house." 

Iltani  grew  for  another  year.  "O  Lugal-naid,  you  must 
be  thinking  what  you  will  do  with  Iltani!" 

"I  will  think,"  said  Lugal-naid. 

"There  is  Ninmar,  son  of  Ur-Enlil— " 

"I  will  think,"  said  Lugal-naid. 

On  the  other  side  of  Euphrates  flowing  through  Baby 
lon,  dwelled  the  brother  of  Lugal-naid,  Ibni-Shamash,  who 
had  an  office  in  the  king's  palace.  Ibni-Shamash  had  sons 
and  two  daughters,  Innina-nuri  and  Tuda-Ishtar.  The 
latter  were  older  than  Iltani,  who  had  child's  admiration 
for  them  and  their  ways  and  adornments.  Ibni-Shamash 
gave  Innina-nuri  for  wife  to  Nana-iddin,  son  of  the  assist 
ant  of  the  under-governor. 

That  had  been  in  the  spring  time  when  the  plain  was 
green  and  there  were  blossoms  in  every  garden.  When  it 
was  autumn,  and  all  the  land  was  brown  and  dry  and  the 
heart  longed  for  rain,  Iltani  heard  Ramtu  and  Ina-banat 
and  Belatum  talking  all  together. 


160  THE   WANDERERS 

It  seemed  that  Innina-nuri  was  doing  wrong.  ...  It 
seemed  that  Nana-iddin  was  going  to  accuse  her  before  the 
judges  in  the  temple  court.  ...  It  seemed  that  all  the 
kindred  of  Ibni-Shamash  were  deeply  concerned.  It  seemed 
that  they  were  angry  with  Innina-nuri,  that  they  sent  and 
exhorted  her,  even  pleaded  with  her.  ...  It  seemed  that 
Innina-nuri  had  listened,  though  with  the  air  of  the  skies 
in  rain  and  storm,  and  at  last,  pushed  against  by  all,  had 
bowed  her  head  before  Nana-iddin.  ...  It  seemed  that 
there  had  followed  a  time  of  stillness  and  that  the  kindred 
all  had  congratulated  themselves.  ...  It  seemed  that 
then,  suddenly,  with  a  crash,  all  was  wrong  again!  Nana- 
iddin  and  his  father  the  assistant  of  the  under-governor 
were  gone  to  the  judges,  who  summoned  before  them 
Innina-nuri. 

A  wind  ran  through  the  houses  of  Ibni-Shamash's  kin 
dred.  Iltani,  too,  heard  the  wind. 

"Justice  of  Marduk  and  the  King.  Innina-nuri,  that  will 
not  be  wife  to  her  husband,  Nana-iddin,  shall  bf  thrown  into 
the  river.  .  .  .  Mercy  of  Marduk  and  the  King.  Two  days 
are  given  to  Innina-nuri  for  repentance  and  returning  to 
Nana-iddin." 

"O  women!"  said  Lugal-naid  when  he  returned  to  his 
house  that  eve.  "See  what  comes  of  wrong-doing!" 

On  a  summer  day,  some  time  after  Innina-n{iri  returned 
finally  to  Nana-iddin,  Iltani  went  with  Ramtu  across  the 
river  to  Ibni-Shamash's  house  to  see  Gin-Enlil  his  wife  and 
Tuda-Ishtar  that  was  not  yet  wed.  The  year  before,  Tuda- 
Ishtar  was,  indeed,  to  have  been  given  for  wife  to  a  very 
fine  young  man,  son  of  one  in  favour  with  the  King.  But 
in  a  war  with  Elam  the  man  had  been  killed.  And  now 
Tuda-Ishtar  would  not  be  wed  until  the  savour  of  his 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF   MARDUK         161 

death  was  gone  from  the  general  mind.  Tuda-Ishtar  was 
beautiful,  and  who  took  her  would  give  Ibni-Shamash  a 
good  price,  and  out  of  this  Ibni-Shamash  would  give  to 
Tuda-Ishtar  herself  garments,  two  slave  women  and  a 
wheat  field. 

Ramtu  and  Iltani  found  at  Ibni-Shamash's  door  slaves 
waiting,  staves  in  hand.  They  had  in  keeping  an  ass  with 
an  embroidered  cloth  upon  its  back,  and  strung  along  the 
bridle  rein  little  silver  bells.  "  For  whom  is  all  this  ? "  asked 
Ramtu.  "For  Tuda-Ishtar,  mistress,"  answered  the  old 
man,  the  head  slave. 

Ramtu  and  Iltani,  entering  the  house,  met  there  an  air 
of  business  and  excitement.  Gin-Enlil  and  Lamazi,  wives 
of  Ibni-Shamash,  and  a  dozen  handmaids  were  gathered 
in  the  next  to  the  greatest  room  in  the  house  about  Tuda- 
Ishtar  who  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  They  were  put 
ting  upon  Tuda-Ishtar  fine  garments  and  ornaments  of 
gold  and  silver  and  gems.  Tuda-Ishtar  was  more  beautiful 
than  ever  for  there  was  a  red  stain  upon  her  lips  and  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  were  quite  like  stars,  and  on  her  head  was  a 
curious,  crown-like  headdress. 

When  Ramtu  saw  this  she  smote  her  hands  together  and 
cried:  "Why  did  you  not  send  word  that  Tuda-Ishtar  was 
going  to-day  to  the  temple  of  Mylitta?  I  would  have 
brought  her  my  chain  that  I  wore  the  day  I  sat  beneath  the 
palm  trees!  —  You,  also,  were  there  that  day,  Gin-Enlil!" 

"Yes.  Twenty  years  ago.  .  .  .  We  did  not  have  to  re 
turn,  Ramtu,  day  after  day,  like  some  we  know!" 

"By  Ishtar,  no!  —  And  Tuda-Ishtar  will  not  have  to 
return,  nor,  indeed,  have  to  wait  at  all!  The  first  man  that 
sees  her  —  the  bee  and  the  honey-bloom!  —  You  should 
have  let  us  know!" 


1 62  THE   WANDERERS 

"She  would  go  now  and  have  it  over  with,  and  her  debt 
to  Mylitta  paid.  —  After  all,  even  though  we  are  told  it  is 
a  high  duty,  a  woman  wants  the  day  behind  her  and  out 
of  mind!" 

Iltani,  going  home  with  Ramtu,  crossing  the  river  in  a 
boat,  looked  at  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Mylitta.  There 
could  be  made  out  the  court,  surrounded  by  palm  trees, 
where,  for  one  time  in  her  life,  every  woman  of  Babylon, 
saving  only  priestesses  and  votaries  of  a  god,  must  sit  until 
there  came  some  man,  no  matter  whom,  who  dropped  a 
piece  of  silver  in  her  lap.  Then  would  the  woman  rise  and 
go  away  with  the  man  and  pay  her  debt  to  Mylitta,  keep 
ing  the  silver  piece  ever  after  to  show  clearance. 

The  young  Iltani  saw  behind  her  forehead  Tuda-Ishtar 
sitting  there  under  palm  trees.  They  said  that  she  would 
not  have  long  to  wait.  That  was  because  she  was  beauti 
ful.  Everybody  admired  that  in  Tuda-Ishtar,  and  served 
her  because  of  it. 

The  young  Iltani  did  not  think  of  all  that;  she  only  saw 
a  picture  of  her  cousin  sitting  under  the  palm  trees,  and  of 
a  man  coming  near  and  then  standing  still  before  Tuda- 
Ishtar.  Her  fancy  made  the  man  young,  and  also  beauti 
ful.  .  .  .  Iltani  looked  at  the  palm  tree  and  the  blue  sky 
behind  them,  and  then  she  looked  over  the  side  of  the  boat 
at  her  own  image  in  the  still  water.  When  she  had  re 
garded  the  image  for  some  moments,  she  glanced  aside  at 
Ramtu.  She  longed  that  Ramtu  should  say  to  her,  "Why 
you,  too,  Iltani,  are  beautiful!"  But  Ramtu  talked  to  the 
boatman  of  the  price  of  food.  .  .  . 

Iltani  grew  apace.  Said  Ramtu  to  Lugal-naid,  "What 
will  you  do  with  this  girl?  Younger  than  she  have  sat 
their  day  in  the  temple  of  Mylitta!  And  Ninmar  has 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         163 

wed  Beligunu !  —  Do  you  mean  to  present  Iltani  to  the 
god?" 

"That  is  what  I  intend,"  said  Lugal-naid.  "It  is  an 
old  oath  that  I  swore  if  I  prospered.  I  waited  to  see  if 
I  did  so  prosper.  This  year  I  am  made  superintendent 
of  superintendents.  Now  Iltani  shall  become  bride  of 
Marduk!" 

Iltani  went  with  all  her  ornaments  to  the  temple  of 
Marduk.  She  went  not  unhappily,  though  she  wept  at 
parting  with  Ramtu,  Ina-banat  and  Belatum.  She  was 
going  to  a  life  of  honour  that,  so  far  as  it  went,  and  did  she 
always  follow  righteousness,  would  reflect  honour  upon 
her  kindred.  A  votary  of  Marduk  gave  up  certain  sweet 
nesses  in  life,  but  also  she  found  others.  Iltani's  kindred 
and  their  friends  brought  her  in  procession  to  the  temple. 
Priests  and  priestesses  ritually  met  her,  Lugal-naid  ritu- 
ally  renounced  his  part  in  her  to  the  god,  her  dower  that 
she  brought  was  ritually  spread  around  her,  music  was 
made,  incense  hung  in  the  air.  .  .  . 

That  had  been  some  months  ago.  Now  that  part  of  the 
huge  temple  which  she  inhabited  was  familiar  to  Iltani. 
Familiar  were  the  rooms  and  rooms  within  rooms,  the 
courts  in  sun  and  shade,  the  rites  and  duties,  service  of  the 
temple,  spirit  of  the  hive! 

Huge  was  the  temple,  many  were  its  inmates,  multi 
farious  its  activities.  The  god  and  the  king  who  ruled  under 
his  shield  so  merged  that  the  king  was  half-divine  and  the 
god  more  than  half-royal.  All  life  moved  under  the  glance 
of  the  god  and  his  fingers  pushed  it  here,  withdrew  it  there, 
or,  resting  underneath,  held  it  steadfast.  The  fingers  of  the 
god,  clothed  in  flesh,  became  his  most  numerous  priest 
hood.  Learning  was  of  the  god,  judgement  and  law  were  of 


1 64  THE  WANDERERS 

the  god,  administration  was  of  the  god,  though  the  king 
was  named  with  him. 

Marduk  was  served  by  a  mighty  host  of  priests.  Priest 
esses  there  were  also  and  in  number,  but  by  no  means  in  so 
great  a  number.  But  men  and  women  together,  his  serv 
ants  swarmed  in  his  enormous  temple.  The  people  like 
wise  filed  or  poured  through  the  long  series  of  temple 
rooms  and  passageways  and  small  and  large  courts.  The 
people  came  to  the  temple  for  knowledge,  for  law,  for 
healing,  for  divination,  for  exorcism  of  the  innumerable 
evil  ones,  for  directions  as  to  paths  through  every  thorny 
desert,  for  comfort,  for  glow,  for  subtle  excuses,  for  life 
anew,  for  spiritual  wine,  and  for  direct,  practical,  everyday 
business.  They  brought  covenanted-for  produce  of  every 
description,  they  poured  into  the  temple  treasury  the 
temple-tax,  that  was  a  broad  and  deep  and  continuing 
stream. 

Much  life  was  there,  centring  in,  flowing  through  the 
temple,  for  any  to  view  who  had  vision,  and  to  grow  by 
who  had  the  seed  of  growth. 

The  priestesses  of  the  temple  taught,  judged,  divined, 
exorcised,  healed,  performed  work  of  scribe  and  notary, 
directed,  executed,  much  as  did  the  priests,  and  as  well. 
They  received  honour  as  did  the  priests.  From  their  status 
there  fell  a  fairly  broad  shaft  of  warmth  and  light  upon  all 
women  of  their  land.  In  Egypt,  too,  fell  by  the  goddess- 
way  a  certain  light  and  warmth  and  colour  upon  the  entire 
mother  hemisphere.  In  Egypt  there  was  Isis,  in  Baby 
lonia,  Ishtar.  And  all  the  Babylonian  gods  had  consorts, 
goddesses  with  powers  and  with  devotees.  There  was 
Ninlil  for  Ea,  and  Antum  for  Anu,  and  Sarpanit  for 
Marduk. 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         165 

That  was  all  true.  Yet  all  was  in  the  convention.  Ishtar, 
indeed,  remained  dimly,  hugely,  outside,  but  Ishtar  to  an 
extent  undefined,  general,  like  the  air  that  you  breathed 
without  thinking  of  it.  But  all  the  others  were  as  wives  of 
men,  honourable,  free  in  much,  in  much  powerful,  but  with 
distinctness  secondary.  All  men  and  gods,  by  virtue  of 
manship,  rose  by  a  head  above  women  and  goddesses. 
That  was  held  to  be  the  nature  of  things,  fundamental  and 
unalterable.  Faint,  old  trails  of  old,  old  story,  old,  inex 
plicable  customs  resting  like  crones  in  nooks  and  corners, 
might  breathe  of  a  time  when  the  indubitable  truth  was 
hardly  so  firmly  established.  But  the  time  must  have  been 
ancient,  ancient!  Now  ever  the  truth  seemed  to  grow  more 
established. 

The  young  Iltani  came  to  a  wide  corner  of  the  temple 
quarter,  rooms  below,  small,  low  rooms  above,  twisting, 
outside  stairs,  passageways,  large  court  and  small  courts, 
and  in  the  central  court  a  well  and  old  trees.  In  many 
places  the  walls,  within  and  without,  had  those  great  pic 
tures  of  gods  and  goddesses  and  sacred  beasts  and  all  their 
huge  adventure.  It  was  like  living,  in  a  far  later  time,  with 
a  child's  gay  picture  book  or  blocks.  In  the  long  hot  sum 
mer,  these  pictures  struck  like  brands  upon  the  tissues  of 
the  mind.  In  the  short,  chill  winter,  with  their  red  and 
their  yellow,  they  gave  out  warmth  and  light. 

Inmates  of  this  part  of  the  temple,  and  they  were  many, 
were  not  at  all  without  steady,  even  employment.  The 
whole,  huge  place  worked,  religion  being  so  official,  Marduk 
so  actually  pervading  all  that  the  land  knew  of  the  actual. 
.  .  .  Iltani  found  herself  with  others  under  the  orders  of 
the  votary  A-rishat,  who  kept  the  room  where  were  kept 
the  clay  tablets  upon  which  were  written,  week  by  week, 


1 66  THE   WANDERERS 

the  simpler  annals  of  the  house  of  the  women  of  the  deity. 
Iltani  had  been  taught  to  write.  Now  with  a  bride  of  Mar- 
duk  a  little  older  than  herself,  she  copied  defective  tablets 
upon  fresher  clay.  She  worked  in  a  little  room  from  which 
one  stepped  into  a  little  court  in  which  there  grew  a  great 
and  old  fig  tree. 

Amat-Tashmit  loved  to  talk.  When  the  votary  A-rishat 
was  near,  when  other,  older  votaries  passed  or  stood  talk 
ing  among  themselves,  the  two  novices  were  silent  enough. 
But  when  none  was  by,  Amat-Tashmit  talked,  and  Iltani 
also,  though  less  than  the  other. 

Amat-Tashmit,  having  had  the  longer  residence  here, 
could  instruct  her  sister  in  devotion.  Iltani  learned  the 
round  of  life,  so  far  as  Amat-Tashmit  had  trodden  it  or 
could  report  upon  others'  treading.  Iltani  heard  from 
Amat-Tashmit  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of  her  many  and  many 
companion  votaries  of  Marduk.  There  was  a  votary  of 
Marduk  for  every  day  and  night  of  Marduk's  year.  And 
Amat-Tashmit  talked  of  the  bands  and  bands  of  priests, 
the  huge  number  of  servants  of  Marduk.  She  talked  of 
individual  priests  of  fame,  persons  of  high  rank  in  the  court 
of  Marduk.  When  she  spoke  of  these  reverence  sat  upon 
her  tongue  and  in  the  ears  of  Iltani.  But  she  talked  also  of 
priests  of  no  especial  fame  whom  she  had  chanced  to  ob 
serve.  The  most  of  these  were  young  —  young  men  under 
guidance  in  the  house  of  Marduk.  It  was  all  harmless  talk 
enough  that  Amat-Tashmit  made,  but  around  it  and 
through  it  ran  a  haunting  warmth  and  colour. 

Matters  of  fact,  serenely  accepted  as  the  right  and 
proper  will  of  the  god,  the  king  and  all  Babylon,  came  also 
into  the  talk  of  the  two.  As  they  worked  they  might  look 
up  from  the  clay  and  from  the  fine  wedge-shaped  stylus 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         167 

which  each  used,  look  up  and  forth,  and  beyond  the  fig 
tree  see  the  "mountain  of  the  god,"  the  tower,  rising  by 
stages  high,  high  against  the  blue  heaven.  They  saw  the 
broad,  winding  way  leading  from  stage  to  stage,  and  the 
figures,  small  at  that  distance,  ascending,  descending, 
ascending.  And  they  might  see  the  chamber  atop,  room  and 
shrine  of  Marduk,  high  up,  high  up,  goal  of  the  seven  stairs ! 
The  light  struck  against  the  bright  pictures  of  the  cham 
ber's  outer  walls.  Sometimes  the  tower  top  dazzled  like 
the  sun,  sometimes  it  was  rosy  or  golden,  a  star  of  morn 
or  eve. 

Iltani  with  Amat-Tashmit  watched  with  a  kind  of  fas 
cination  this  tower  of  seven  levels,  one  above  the  other. 
It  was  the  "mountain  of  the  god."  Within  that  topmost 
room  stood  the  great  figure  of  the  god,  overlaid  with  gold, 
and  all  around  were  ranged  the  most  precious  votive  figures, 
figures  given  by  kings  and  by  the  queens  of  kings.  And  in 
the  room  was  the  bed  of  the  god,  hung  with  gold,  the  bed 
of  Marduk,  god  of  gods,  whom  to  serve  was  honour  and 
felicity,  whom  to  represent  was  honour  and  felicity,  the  bed 
of  Marduk  and  the  goddess  Sarpanit,  his  spouse. 

Each  day  the  novices  saw  borne  around  the  tower  and 
upward  the  votary  whose  name  was  set  against  that  day 
in  the  year  of  Marduk.  She  was  borne  in  procession,  with 
music  and  song.  The  two  watched  her  and  that  sister 
throng  mount  from  stage  to  stage.  Arrived  upon  the 
seventh  the  company  circled  three  times  the  mountain-top. 
Then  the  bride  of  Marduk  went  alone  into  the  freshly 
swept  and  garlanded  Marduk-room.  The  two  watching 
from  the  court  of  the  fig  tree  might  see  the  company  part 
from  her  it  had  brought,  reabsorb  into  itself  the  votary 
whose  place  she  took,  whose  day  this  year  was  passed,  and 


1 68  THE  WANDERERS 

again  with  music  descend  the  spiral  way.  The  day  went. 
Iltani  and  Amat-Tashmit,  working  with  stylus  and  clay, 
gave  not  much  thought  to  the  tower  and  the  votary  who 
praised  Marduk  alone  in  the  chamber  where  was  reared 
the  great  gold-covered  image. 

But  when  the  rays  of  the  sun  were  slant  they  stepped 
from  their  own  small  room  into  the  court  of  the  fig  tree,  for 
they  heard  trumpets  and  knew  that  the  priest  who  that 
night  would  represent  the  god  now  went  to  the  mountain- 
top.  Small  figures  in  the  distance,  they  saw  him  and  the 
band  that  bore  him  thither.  The  strong  chanting  of  the 
priests  came  to  them,  the  light  glinted  upon  the  lifted, 
waved,  gilded,  many-shaped  symbols  and  insignia  of  Mar 
duk.  They  watched  this  company  also  from  stage  to 
stage,  to  the  tower  height,  watched  the  company  part 
there  from  the  human  Marduk,  watched  it  descend  in  the 
red  sunset  light.  .  .  .  Up  there  the  votary  was  no  longer 
alone.  Up  there  were  Marduk  and  Sarpanit. 

The  days  passed,  the  weeks  and  the  months.  The 
temple,  or  her  corner  of  the  temple,  grew  home-like  to 
Iltani.  Around  her  were  much  folk  and  manifold  business. 
She  laboured  with  others,  rested  and  played,  ate  and  drank 
and  slept  in  a  field  of  crowded  bloom,  of  a  thousand  bees 
that  gathered  honey.  All  was  under  rule,  all  that  was  done 
was  done  ritually,  arrows  drawn  to  hit  the  sun.  But  many 
had  forgotten  the  aim  of  the  arrows.  The  marked  rhythm 
pleased  Iltani.  Her  body  seemed  to  move  with  it,  and  that 
within  her  body,  the  worker  that  had  spun  the  body  from 
itself.  .  .  . 

Amat-Tashmit  had  been  given  by  her  parents  to  the  god 
some  months  before  the  coming  of  Iltani.  Now  Amat- 
Tashmit  was  shown  her  name  written  against  such  a  day 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         169 

"for  the  holy  room  in  the  lofty  house  of  Marduk."  Even 
the  seeing  of  her  name  written  made  a  gala  day  for  the 
votary  concerned.  That  day  she  was  excused  from  work, 
she  was  served  first  at  meal  time,  she  was  given  a  wreath 
of  flowers.  The  next  day  she  went  to  a  range  of  rooms 
across  the  great  court  of  the  well  and  the  trees.  There,  for 
so  many  days,  would  be  training,  instruction,  purifica 
tion,  lasting  until  the  day  they  adorned  her  and  bore  her 
with  timbrel  and  song  to  the  door  of  Marduk.  As,  every 
day,  through  the  year  of  Marduk  there  wound  the  pro 
cession  to  the  "  mountain  of  the  god,"  so,  every  day,  there 
moved  through  the  courts  of  the  votaries  a  woman  crowned 
with  flowers.  .  .  .  Iltani  watched  with  a  thrill  Amat-Tash- 
mit  set  the  flower  wreath  upon  her  head. 

The  next  day  Amat-Tashmit  was  gone  across  the  court 
of  the  well.  Iltani,  alone,  copied  accounts  in  the  small  room 
behind  the  great  tree. 

The  thrill  did  not  go  away.  Behind  it  arose  a  strange 
feeling  that  turned  the  tree  into  a  forest  through  which 
Iltani  wandered.  The  young  Iltani,  for  all  her  copper- 
coloured  hair,  could  not  remember  ever  once  having  been 
in  any  forest,  but  that  was  what  she  felt.  She  worked  all 
day  in  a  dream;  whether  she  sat  alone,  or  found  the  hum 
ming  of  other  women  about  her,  in  a  dream.  When  the 
sun's  rays  came  slant  and  the  trumpets  blew  Iltani  turned 
face  to  the  tower,  and  through  her  poured  and  thrilled 
and  pulsed  something  new  in  the  forest  that  seemed  to 
turn  red  and  purple  and  splendid. 

At  night,  lying  awake  in  a  room  with  many  young,  sleep 
ing  women,  the  glow  seemed  to  Iltani  to  pass  into  glory. 
...  In  the  morning  one  of  her  companions  said  to  her, 
"You  look  differently!" 


i  yo  THE  WANDERERS 

A 

That  day  the  votary  A-rishat  installed  beside  her  two 
writers  upon  clay,  and  there  was  no  more  loneliness  in  that 
kind.  But  Iltani  wandered  in  the  forest  of  the  inner  world. 

Lugal-naid  had  brought  her  to  the  temple  in  the  spring 
of  the  year.  She  had  been  given  in  the  days  just  following 
the  New  Year  high  festival,  the  god  day  of  god  days,  the 
day  when  Marduk  and  Sarpanit  remembered  and  cele 
brated  their  eternal  wedding,  immortal,  without  beginning, 
without  ending,  the  day  when  out  of  his  power  and  bliss 
Marduk  portioned,  for  the  year  to  come,  the  lot  of  man 
kind,  the  high  day,  rising  like  a  tower  out  of  ten  preceding, 
marked  days  during  which  Babylonia  remembered  its  sins 
and  cleansed  its  heart,  the  day  of  the  Sun  when  he  put  off 
his  winter  mourning.  All  the  rest  of  the  year  fell  away  from 
that  shining  point,  then  turned  upon  itself  and  climbed 
again  to  the  golden  mark.  Six  months  it  fell  away,  six 
months  it  climbed.  .  .  .  The  wreathed  day,  the  high  day, 
looked  forward  to  by  all  Babylon,  the  huge  festival,  the 
day  of  mystic  union  and  good  omen,  the  day  when  to 
serve  Marduk  was  fame  and  joy,  Marduk  who  came  in 
fulness  of  power,  raying  light.  .  .  . 

To  Iltani  the  votary  the  forest  seemed  to  fill  with  light, 
rose  light.  Within  it  sprang  desire  like  a  strong  tree,  desire 
to  be  the  Sarpanit  of  that  day. 

So  high  an  honour  was  the  dream,  the  aspiration,  vague 
or  distinct  of  every  maiden  in  the  house  of  the  women.  It 
was  ever  a  maiden,  chosen  halfway  in  the  year,  in  the  au 
tumn,  then  at  once  set  aside,  honoured,  instructed,  purified, 
made  beautiful  within  and  without  against  that  high  New 
Year  day.  There  were  many  in  the  continually  fed  house  of 
the  women  who  might  have  that  dream.  Iltani,  daughter 
of  Lugal-naid,  knew  no  reason  why  Iltani  should  be  chosen, 


THE  PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         171 

But  now,  day  and^night,  she  saw  before  her  the  winged 
Marduk,  shining  one,  god  of  gods!  Desire  held  her,  to  be, 
that  day,  of  the  mountain-top.  It  sprang  like  a  strong  tree 
in  the  rose-lit  forest,  or  rather  it  stood  the  forest  itself.  .  .  . 

Day  after  day  went  by,  and  here  was  autumn.  The  vo 
tary  A-rishat  spoke  to  Iltani.  "The  rulers  of  the  temple  sit 
to-day  in  the  room  of  the  lion.  You  and  twenty  more  are 
chosen  to  pass  before  them." 

Priests  and  priestesses,  chiefs  in  sanctity,  sat  in  the  room 
of  the  lion.  Iltani  saw  them  as  huge  veiled  forms,  guardians 
of  the  way  to  Marduk,  god  of  gods,  raying  light  — 

Three  days,  and  she  went  again  to  the  room  of  the  lion. 
One  day  more,  and  voices  told  her  that  Iltani,  daughter  of 
Lugal-naid,  was  chosen  for  the  New  Year  Sarpanit.  With 
trumpets  it  was  proclaimed  in  the  temple.  Babylon  knew 
it  presently.  .  .  .  Lugal-naid  gave  a  feast. 

Iltani  went  to  a  part  of  the  temple  mass  that  was  called 
the  house  of  the  New  Year,  and  to  a  room  therein  that  was 
named  the  room  of  Sarpanit.  This  chamber  was  built  high, 
and  it  gave  upon  the  flat  roof  of  a  congeries  of  attendant 
rooms.  Upon  the  roof  stood  great  earthen  jars,  rilled  with 
growing  plants,  and  around  it  ran  a  brick  parapet.  The 
outer  wall  of  the  Sarpanit  room  was  overpainted  with  a 
great  tree  of  life,  and  beside  it,  tall  as  the  tree,  the  winged 
Marduk.  The  whole  faced  the  east,  and  when  the  sun  had 
passed  the  zenith,  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  "mountain 
of  the  god." 

From  autumn  to  spring,  throughout  the  winter  that 
knew  rain  but  not  snow,  the  New  Year  votary  dwelled  in 
the  Sarpanit  room,  dwelled  watched  by  aged  women  who 
were  now  but  as  doorkeepers  and  gardeners  in  the  great 
house  of  the  god,  dwelled  subject  to  much  instruction  by 


1 72  THE   WANDERERS 

votary  and  priestess,  efficient,  famed,  appointed  to  that 
service,  dwelled  in  the  midst  of  Sarpanit  rites,  a  being  set 
apart  in  the  hive,  symbolically,  esoterically,  the  hive  itself. 

Iltani  lived  six  months  in  the  Sarpanit  room.  When  the 
rains  fell  a  great  brazier  filled  with  coals  cast  a  dull  glow 
upon  pictured  walls.  When  the  sky  cleared  and  the  sun 
shone  out,  she  might  spend  hours  upon  the  roof  warmed 
by  the  sun  that  again  was  Marduk.  At  night  she  might  be 
a  watcher  of  the  stars. 

She  faced  the  "mountain  of  the  god."  If  it  rained,  a 
silver  veil  fell  between  her  and  it,  or  there  was  reared  a 
leaden  wall.  If  the  weather  was  bright,  all  its  colours 
dazzled.  In  moonshine  and  starshine  it  seemed  to  go  yet 
higher,  up  among  the  stars. 

Every  morning  she  heard  music  and  singing  voices  and 
watched  the  day's  votary  mount  to  the  seventh  stage. 
When  the  sun's  rays  came  slant  she  heard  the  trumpets 
and  watched  the  mounting  priest  of  Marduk.  When  the 
dark  came  there  was  a  lamp  there,  far  above,  in  the  Mar- 
duk-room.  ...  The  priest  of  the  New  Year.  .  .  .  She 
knew  that  he  would  be  chosen  for  beauty  and  strength. 

Iltani  sat  beneath  the  parapet  of  the  roof  by  the  Sarpanit 
room.  It  was  night,  mild  as  a  spring  night  of  more  north 
ern  lands.  The  stars  were  shining.  A  young  moon  gave 
pale  light.  The  beams  fell  against  the  tiled  outer  wall  of 
the  room  and  showed  the  huge,  pictured  forms. 

Marduk  was  winged.  He  rose  tall,  tall  and  full  of  might! 
In  his  face,  in  his  form  was  what  majesty,  what  beauty  the 
art  of  Babylonia  could  put  there.  He  stood  winged,  his 
hand  upon  the  tree  of  life. 

Iltani  had  looked  at  him  so  long,  saying,  "God,  God!"  to 
herself,  that  now  the  wings  and  the  crowned  head  seemed 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         173 

to  rise  among  the  stars,  to  rise  from  earth  and  become  the 
firmament,  the  firmament  overshadowing,  upholding,  to 
be  worshipped,  and  only  that  to  be  worshipped.  .  .  . 
Iltani  of  her  own  motion,  bowed  herself  together,  touched 
her  forehead  to  the  ground. 

Ishtar!  .  .  .  She  did  not  know  why  Ishtar,  not  Sar- 
panit,  should  come  into  her  mind  —  save  that  Ishtar  was 
in  some  way  Mother  Earth  and  all  that  grew,  and  dimly, 
dimly  very  great!  Ishtar  was  mother  and  children,  bear 
ing  and  growing.  .  .  . 

But  Iltani  looked  again  at  Marduk,  and  was  wrapped  in 
magic,  fold  on  fold. 

Spring  came  upon  the  plains  that  stretched  from  Eu 
phrates.  Verdure  and  flowers  arose  from  the  dark.  The 
watchers  of  the  stars  in  the  high  house  of  Marduk  sent  word 
to  the  king,  and  the  king  proclaimed  the  word  to  the  people. 
In  the  heavens  was  written  the  sign  that  meant  rich  har 
vests  at  home,  and  abroad,  in  the  king's  wars,  victory. 
Marduk  had  thrown,  before  his  coming,  a  handful  of 
jewels.  At  that  the  city  so  rejoiced  that  the  nine  days 
before  the  high  days  that  were  officially  days  of  supplica 
tion,  repentance  and  cleansing  of  heart,  humbling  and 
propitiation,  went  themselves  like  festival. 

In  the  house  of  Sarpanit  the  New  Year  votary  was 
watched,  tended,  made  in  all  ways  beauteous.  .  .  .  Mar 
duk,  coming  in  power,  must  find  a  Sarpanit  also  in  power, 
kindler  of  desire! 

Babylon,  in  fresh  heat,  under  a  sky  from  which  had 
passed  all  the  rain  clouds,  put  on  holiday  garb.  The  people 
thronged  the  temple  courts,  coming  in  groups  and  bands 
and  processions,  bringing  the  sacrifices.  There  was  heard, 
as  on  no  other  day,  the  bleating  of  sheep,  the  lowing  of 


i74  THE   WANDERERS 

cattle,  the  voices  of  doves.  King  Sharrani  came  in  pro 
cession,  with  clangour  and  throb  of  instruments  of  music, 
with  shouts  of  the  populace.  The  gods  from  their  lesser 
temples  came  in  procession  to  visit  Marduk,  god  of  gods. 
Priest-borne,  newly-decked,  came  the  images  by  the  Sacred 
Street,  came  to  huge  chanting,  to  the  bowing  of  the  throng. 
From  the  pictured  walls  looked  the  pictured  genii,  the 
pictured  sacred  beasts,  the  pictured  gods. 

Babylon  and  the  brimming  river  Euphrates  and  the 
plain  that  was  to  thicken  with  wheat  and  barley,  millet 
and  sesame,  waked  through  the  starlight  of  the  night  be 
fore  the  day.  Cresset  lamps  burned  in  doorways,  the  young 
men  surged,  singing,  through  the  streets.  Waned  the 
spring  night,  arose  a  breath  of  balm  and  spice,  came  the 
light  in  the  east.  Trumpets  blew  from  the  city  wall, 
trumpets  blew  from  the  king's  palace,  trumpets  blew  from 
the  temple  roofs.  Dawned  the  high  day  of  the  round  year, 
the  day  when  Marduk  returned  to  his  house  in  a  golden 
mantle  of  strength!  The  children  and  all  the  people  leaped 
up  to  festival.  When  Marduk  the  sun  rose  from  where  he 
slept,  beyond  Tigris,  east  of  India,  he  was  met  with 
ecstasy.  All  day  Marduk  the  sun  rained  light  upon  Baby 
lonia,  upon  Babylon,  and  light  intense  upon  his  temple 
there.  As  ever,  on  the  New  Year  day,  were  found  men  and 
women  who  claimed  to  see  the  winged  Marduk,  hovering 
in  the  heavens,  above  his  lofty  house.  .  .  . 

At  an  early  hour  in  the  day  the  women  votaries  of  the 
high  god  came  with  music,  with  garlands,  with  burning 
frankincense,  to  the  Sarpanit-room  in  the  shadow  of  the 
tower.  They  took  Iltani  and  robed  her  in  fine  white  fig 
ured  with  gold.  They  put  a  veil  upon  her  like  the  mist 
upon  the  morning  plain,  and  over  it  a  twisted  circlet  of 


THE   PRIESTESS   OF  MARDUK         175 

silver  and  gold.  They  took  her  from  the  Sarpanit-room  and 
in  the  court  they  placed  her  at  the  head  of  their  band,  with 
only  musicians  going  before  her.  They  gave  into  her  hand 
a  stalk  with  two  flowers,  they  raised  over  her  a  red  canopy. 
The  music  swelled,  the  voices  rose.  In  a  blue,  upcurling, 
incense  cloud,  Iltani  set  her  foot  upon  the  broad,  the  worn, 
the  clay  and  fire  made  tower  stair. 

Stage  by  stage,  stage  by  stage,  and  the  city  was  below 
her  and  the  thronged  and  throbbing  temple  courts.  Stage 
by  stage,  and  a  gulf  of  blue  light,  thrilling,  tingling  was 
around.  It  weighed  her  down,  it  upheld  her.  She  looked 
to  the  sky  and  thought  that  she  saw  Marduk,  winged, 
coming  from  the  sun. 

The  procession  returned  to  the  court  whence  sprang  the 
tower.  All  day  the  temple,  all  day  the  king  and  his  chief 
men,  all  day  Babylon  and  all  Babylonia  praised  Marduk 
and  did  rites  before  him.  All  day  Marduk  was  to  be  felt 
above  the  city,  the  river,  the  plain,  above  the  temple 
quarter  and  its  smoking  altars,  above  the  tower,  the 
"mountain  of  the  god."  All  day  the  human  Sarpanit 
awaited  alone  the  slant  rays  of  the  sun  and  the  human 
Marduk. 

Symbols  —  symbols  that  were  warm  and  glowed.  .  .  . 
Iltani-Sarpanit  sat  in  the  gold-furnished  temple  room  in 
the  prescribed  attitude  of  devotion.  She  sat  still,  and  light 
and  fire  ran  through  her  being.  Marduk  —  Marduk  — 
Marduk! 

The  sun's  rays  came  slant.  At  the  mountain-top,  she 
heard  at  the  mountain  foot,  trumpets  blowing.  .  .  .  She 
veiled  her  eyes,  she  quivered.  All  at  once,  her  strong  dream 
of  ecstasy  parted  a  little.  .  .  .  This  was  a  man  coming  to 
the  mountain-top,  a  man  as  she  was  a  woman.  Terror 


176  THE   WANDERERS 

threatened,  a  depth  of  headlong  fall.  0  God,  my  God!  0 
Marduk,  raying  light! 

The  lover  was  the  winged  Marduk  —  never,  never  must 
she  lose  him!  .  .  .  The  trumpets  were  more  loudly  blowing, 
and  now  she  might  hear  rising  to  her  the  strong  chanting, 
the  rhythmic  tread.  There  was  an  altar  in  the  room,  and 
upon  it  a  burning  fire.  Now  she  rose  and,  as  she  had  been 
taught  to  do,  heaped  this  with  the  richest  spices,  with 
sandalwood  and  frankincense.  The  room  filled  with  thin 
clouds,  blue  and  fragrant,  and  in  the  heart  of  these  stood 
Iltani,  and  her  soul  beat  about  to  repel  the  terror  and  keep 
the  ecstasy. 

Lugal-naid,  and  Ibni-Shamash  and  Nana-iddin,  Ramtu, 
Ina-banatand  Belatum,  Innina-nuri,Tuda-Ishtar —  teach 
ings  formal  and  informal,  conscious,  unconscious,  word  of 
mouth  and  blow  from  hand,  long,  long,  long  impressions, 
tellings  and  tellings  and  tellings,  repetitions,  as  it  were, 
before  she  was  born,  and  repetitions  after  she  was  born  — 
very  much  and  very  strong  drew  to  themselves,  whelmed 
and  coloured  the  soul  of  the  votary.  .  .  .  Iltani  would  have 
still  the  ecstasy,  the  abandonment,  the  feeling  of  god- 
presence.  If  he  were  not  the  god,  make  him  such  —  make  him 
such!  Perhaps  he  was  the  god — perhaps  he  was  —  With  man 
and  woman  man  was  highest  always  —  Man  was  highest 
—  Lugal-naid  said  it,  Ramtu,  Ina-banat,  Belatum  said 
it!  Man  was  highest  —  man  to  woman  was  as  god  to 
votary! 

She  would  not  lose  the  winged  Marduk,  and  she  could 
not  believe  in  her  own  wings.  So  she  spread  the  burning 
frankincense,  and  she  turned  the  altar  of  the  god  some 
what  from  the  east,  and  in  the  blue  smoke  now  rising,  now 
flattened  to  right  or  left,  now  rolling  downward,  she,  of  her 


THE  PRIESTESS   OF   MARDUK         177 

own  movement,  touched  her  forehead  to  the  earth  and 
beheld  man  as  god. 

The  human  Marduk,  too,  was  young  and  chosen  for 
beauty  and  strength.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IX 

GLAUCON   AND   MYRINA 

GLAUCON,  the  statesman  and  soldier,  walked  homeward 
from  the  Prytaneum  where  the  city  had  received  certain 
strangers  of  note,  envoys  to  Athens.  With  him  moved 
Theodorus  the  sculptor,  and  behind  the  two  several  at 
tendant  slaves.  The  air  was  fine,  with  a  breeze  from  the 
sea.  Theodorus  made  his  companion  remark  the  light  that 
fell  upon  Mount  Lycabettus.  Glaucon  looked  and  said 
that  the  effect  was  good,  but  said  it  in  a  tone  of  abstrac 
tion.  His  mind  was  yet  in  the  Prytaneum,  engaged  with 
his  speech  that  the  occasion  had  prompted.  Glaucon's 
phrases  yet  echoed  in  Glaucon's  ears.  They  had  been 
good  phrases  and  Glaucon  thought  them  good.  He  would 
have  judged  "sententious"  and  "strong"  to  be  applicable 
words.  Those,  and  "at  times  eloquence,  like  the  light  upon 
Mount  Lycabettus."  Yet  was  the  statesman  Glaucon  by 
no  means  impudent  of  his  merit  nor  a  common  braggart. 
He  had  spoken  well  and  for  the  right  as  he  saw  it,  and  he 
saw  more  than  many.  And  behind  what  Glaucon  said 
stood,  for  men  to  see,  many  known  courageous  acts  of 
Glaucon. 

The  two  lived  near  the  Diomean  Gate.  Now,  making 
way  through  the  crowded  streets,  the  hour  being  one  when 
men  were  abroad,  they  reached  a  palaestra  and  saw  about 
to  enter  several  of  their  acquaintance  —  Lycias  the  poet, 
Ion,  Lysander,  Hippodamus,  and  others.  These  called  to 
the  two  to  enter  also  and  observe  Thracian  wrestlers.  All 


GLAUCON   AND  MYRINA  179 

went  in  together  and,  mingled  with  a  crowd,  watched  the 
mighty-thewed.  When  the  match  was  over  the  group, 
leaving  the  palaestra,  but  still  talking  of  the  body  and  its 
powers,  went  along  until  there  was  reached  the  small 
temple  of  Hestia.  Here  the  steps  rose  invitingly  free  of  the 
crowd,  and  the  space  between  the  pillars  smiled  and  in 
vited.  The  light  yet  shone  upon  the  mountains  and  upon 
the  temples  of  the  Acropolis.  Lycias  and  Theodorus  would 
pause  and  in  the  porch  of  Hestia  continue  the  conversa 
tion  while  observing  the  beauty  of  the  evening.  Glaucon 
remarked  that  he  had  business  at  home.  "Let  it  take  its 
rest!"  said  Lycias.  "  You  are  a  poet,  also,  Glaucon,  and  a 
painter  and  a  maker  of  statues  —  just  as  I  converse  famil 
iarly  with  envoys  and  undoubtedly  fought  at  Megara, 
though  I  cannot  just  now  recall  having  done  so!  Every 
man  sacrifices  in  every  temple.  Stay  and  put  up  your 
hands  to  beauty,  and  let  business  go  throw  herself  down 
from  the  wall!" 

"He  was  only  a  moment  ago  a  poet,"  said  Theodorus. 
"You  should  have  heard  him  at  the  Prytaneum  upon 
Justice!" 

They  turned  into  the  porch  of  Hestia.  Despite  the  light 
upon  the  temples,  and  despite  the  interposed  action  of  the 
wrestling  match,  Glaucon,  in  an  inner  voice,  was  yet  say 
ing  over  this  or  that  part  of  the  Prytaneum  speech.  The 
difference  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was  now  saying  them  over 
to  Myrina. 

"An  encomium?"  asked  Ion. 

"You  would  have  thought  it  a  voice  from  the  Golden 
Age!" 

Glaucon's  ears  and  at  last  Glaucon's  mind  caught  the 
statement  of  Theodorus  and  were  pleased  thereby.  He 


180  THE   WANDERERS 

turned  from  the  praise-honey  that  Myrina  would  serve  to 
the  immediate  feast. 

"I  love  to  hear,"  said  Hippodamus,  "lovers  speak  of 
love,  poets  of  poetry,  physicians  of  healing,  soldiers  of 
soldiering,  and  legislators  of  the  relations  between  states 
and  among  men." 

"Oh!"  cried  Lycias.   "Glaucon  is  a  lover,  too." 

"Who  is  the  youth?"  asked  Ion. 

Laughter  arose.  "Ion  is  newly  come  to  town  —  he  does 
not  know!  Address  your  question,  Ion,  to  Glaucon." 

"I  will  save  him  the  trouble,  Lycias,"  said  Glaucon. 
"Know,  Ion,  that  I  am  like  the  barbarians  and  hold  in 
hatred  affection  in  that  kind." 

"But  say  to  Glaucon  the  word  Myrina  — " 

"Who  is  Myrina?" 

"Myrina  is  a  woman.  —  Lysander  the  silent,  have  you 
seen  the  new  colonnade  by  the  temple  of  ^Esculapius?" 

"Knock!  Knock!"  quoth  Lycias.  "Doorkeeper  and 
dog  say  'Not  at  home!'  —  Now,  in  the  speech  at  the 
Prytaneum —  Oh,  here  he  is  at  home!  Oh,  voice  from  the 
Golden  Age,  discourse  to  us  anew  of  Justice!" 

"I  said  of  Justice,"  answered  Glaucon,  "what  a  man 
of  knowledge  should  say." 

"He  will  not  tell!  —  Veil  your  face,  O  Glaucon,  for  I 
am  not  modest  for  my  friend!  —  Diocles  and  Timotheus 
overcrowed  the  envoys  with  the  glories  of  the  Athenian 
state.  They  sat  with  a  downward  look,  and  saw  on  the 
earth  their  bound  hopes.  Then  arose  Glaucon,  and  Apollo 
inspired  him." 

"Fighting  for  the  envoys  and  their  country?" 

"By  Apollo!"  said  Glaucon,  "fighting  for  the  right  of 
things!" 


GLAUCON   AND   MYRINA  181 

"First,  good  as  any  rhapsode,  he  gave  five  lines  from 
Homer!  Then  he  spoke  of  his  own  motion,  or  of  Apollo's 
motion.  He  would  have  Justice  reign  over  the  countries  of 
men,  and  none  take  advantage  of  his  neighbour!" 

"Hmmm!" 

"  So  sounded  the  Prytaneum.  —  I  find  that  I  cannot 
give  all  his  arguments,  but  they  were  good  ones.  There  was 
opposition  —  not  from  the  envoys;  they  breathed  softly 
and  seemed  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  sun  after  winter — 
but  Diocles  and  Timotheus  and  their  following  drove  in 
in  a  mighty  counter-current.  Then  might  you  have  seen 
Odysseus  fight  the  seas!" 

"Justice—" 

"Later  he  brought  in  friendship  and  alliance,  and  the 
love  of  a  friend  for  the  true  and  the  beautiful  in  his  friend, 
and  the  friend's  desire  that  always  his  friend  should  lift 
with  him.  So  that,  climbing  the  mountain,  one  should  not 
cry  down  to  another,  £Lo,  now  the  sea  opens  before  me! 
lo,  now  I  see  all  Hellas!'  while  the  other  cries  sorrowfully 
up  to  him,'  Still  am  I  in  the  woods  and  briars  and  among  the 
caves!'  He  made  application  to  states." 

"By  Ares!"  interrupted  Hippodamus,  "that  is  not  the 
way  I  look  at  it!" 

"No,  Hippodamus.  But  that  makes  appeal  to  Glaucon. 
He  made  application  to  states,  and,  inspired  by  Apollo,  he 
laid  down  a  principle.  The  true  lover  of  man  will  have  man 
free  and  noble  wherever  he  be  found.  The  true  statesman 
wishes  as  much  for  every  state." 

"Father  Zeus!"  cried  Hippodamus,  "would  you  have 
Sparta,  who  is  already  as  brave,  become  as  wise  as  we? 
This  little,  weak  country  does  not  matter,  but  Sparta  — !" 

"  I  am  not  speaking,  Hippodamus,  but  Glaucon  —  Glau- 


1 82  THE   WANDERERS 

con  speaks.  *  The  great  friend,  that  is  to  say  the  great 
statesman,  denies  to  none  place  and  garlands!  He  says  to 
none,  "Lie  forever  on  the  mat  at  my  door,  be  forever  dog 
at  my  heels ! " '  Says  Glaucon, i  Shall  a  state  withdraw  wis 
dom  from  another  state,  leaving  it  dark  of  knowledge  so 
that  that  state  no  longer  knows  how  best  to  help  itself? 
Shall  a  state  be  jealous  of  wisdom  in  a  fellow  state  ?  Shall  a 
state  turn  aside  from  its  fellow  the  rivers  of  wealth?  Shall 
it  say,  "Mine  are  all  the  rivers!  Not  for  you  ease  of  your 
own! "  Shall  a  state  desire  to  soften  the  body  of  its  fellow? 
Shall  it  say,  "Not  for  you  gymnastic  nor  the  diet  of  the 
strong!  So,  if  we  come  to  battle,  you  will  not  see  the  glint 
of  any  god's  eye,  standing  in  your  ranks!  No!  But  you 
shall  shamefully  flee,  and  I  will  have  you  in  laughter,  and 
my  heart  will  swell  with  pride  where  I  stand  fast."  Shall 
a  state  work  that,  or  wish  to  work  that,  toward  its  fellow? 
Shall  a  state  say  to  its  fellow,  "Be  fair  for  me,  send  me 
dancers  and  flute-players,  send  me  grapes  from  your  vine 
yards  and  wine  from  your  wine  presses,  be  for  me  rich 
views  and  pleasant  ports,  grow  wheat  for  me,  send  me 
marble  out  of  which  I  may  carve  the  forms  of  the  gods, 
but  move  not  of  yourself  nor  for  yourself!  Be  much  if  you 
will,  but  be  not  free!"  —  O  Apollo!  O  Apollo!  Thy  arrow 
that  is  drawn  against  that  thus-speaking  state  was  made 
by  Justice  in  her  deep  cave  at  the  head  of  the  world! 
Turn  —  turn  —  turn,  thus-speaking  state!  Make  liba 
tions,  pray  for  nobility!'" 

Theodorus  the  sculptor  looked  again  at  the  light  upon 
Mount  Lycabettus.  "Something  like  that  was  what 
Glaucon  said." 

Lycias  spoke.  "By  Pallas,  a  good  speech!  —  But  now 
propound  —  Does  Athens  take  into  alliance  the  country 
that  sent  the  envoys?" 


GLAUCON   AND  MYRINA  183 

Said  suddenly  Lysander  the  silent:  "I  came  by  the 
cross  streets  from  the  Agora  and  overtook  an  acquaint 
ance  who  had  been  at  the  Prytaneum  in  the  train  of  the 
Archon  Timotheus.  He  said  that  he  would  stake  his  for 
tune  that  Athens  would  do  no  such  thing!" 

"Father  Zeus!  I  should  think  not!"  said  Hippodamus. 

"Oh,  then,"  said  Lycias,  "Glaucon  spoke  in  a  dream  to 
dream-listeners! " 

Glaucon  looked  at  the  light  that  was  now  but  a  thin 
crown  upon  the  mountains.  "  I  think  that  I  was  dreaming," 
he  said.  "  I  have  strange  dreams  sometimes ! "  He  gathered 
his  mantle  about  him.  —  "Theodorus,  are  you  for  home?" 

The  two  left  the  porch  and,  the  slaves  attending,  went 
away  in  the  purple  twilight  toward  the  Diomean  Gate. 
Lycias  and  the  others  followed  them  with  their  eyes. 

"Who  is  Myrina?"  again  asked  Ion  the  stranger. 

"  How  short  a  while  have  you  been  in  Athens !  —  Myrina ! 
Ask  the  first  street  urchin  you  meet!  He  will  say  to  you: 
*O  Arcadian,  for  sense  and  wit  the  hetaerae  are  among 
women  as  is  Hellas  among  countries!  As  is  Athens  to  other 
cities  of  the  Hellenes  so  is  Myrina  (and  one  or  two  others) 
among  the  hetaerae.  For  the  rest,'  continues  your  urchin, 
'she  is  now  the  mistress  of  Glaucon  the  statesman.'" 

"Is  Glaucon  wived?" 

"*O  thou  Arcadian!'  says  the  street  urchin,  shaking  his 
finger,  'what  of  that?  Know,  O  woodland  stranger,  that 
wives  are  to  bear  us  children  that  we  may  reasonably  be 
lieve  to  be  our  own,  and  likewise  to  keep  in  order  our 
houses.  Hetaerae  are  for  delight.  Shall  not  a  Hellene  have 
children,  house-order,  and  delight?'  Then  will  he  gather 
his  rags  together  and  depart,  shaking  his  head." 

"Let  us,  too,  depart,"  said  Lysander  the  silent.    "The 


1 84  THE   WANDERERS 

light  is  fading,  and  there  is  a  mist  gathering  over  the 
earth." 

In  the  mean  time  Glaucon  and  Theodorus  pursued  their 
way  along  a  street  not  now  so  crowded.  "Why  do  you  not 
sup  with  Myrina?"  asked  the  sculptor. 

"That  is  for  to-morrow.  —  To-night  there  is  drudgery 
at  home.  I  have  made  a  trading  venture  to  Egypt  and  to 
night  the  master  of  the  ship  is  to  meet  me  and  give  ac 
count." 

" Cannot  Cleita—?" 

"Cleita!  —  No,  she  keeps  household  accounts,  but  this 
is  man's  work." 

They  came,  as  they  spoke,  to  the  portico  of  Glaucon's 
house.  Those  that  lounged  there  sprang  up  to  greet  the 
master;  the  doorkeeper  opened  both  leaves  of  the  door. 
The  two  entered,  were  brought  water  for  hands  and  feet, 
had  the  dust  brushed  from  their  garments.  A  dog  came 
and  sprang  upon  Glaucon,  giving  welcome.  The  master 
enquired  for  supper.  It  was  ready,  and  the  two  proceeded 
to  the  banquet-room.  Presently  came  the  master  of  the 
ship  trading  to  Egypt.  Glaucon  had  a  couch  placed  for 
him.  Moschus  the  shipmaster  muttered  something  about 
plain  men  and  being  at  a  loss  among  gentlemen  ways, 
then,  taking  the  couch,  reclined  with  an  air  of  listening  for 
the  steersman's  call.  Supper  was  brought,  and  after  food 
wine  in  a  great  cup.  The  talk  was  of  the  sea-master's  adven 
tures,  for  he  was  dead  on  other  sides.  But  he  could  well 
discourse  of  these,  and  of  ships  and  cargoes  and  harbour 
merchants,  and  he  knew  the  middle  sea  from  Tyre  to  the 
Pillars  of  Hercules,  and  had  glimpsed  the  River-Ocean 
beyond.  In  his  talk  was  spice  of  perils  withstood,  and  of 
action  in  the  breadths  and  narrows  of  the  sea.  Also,  rich 


GLAUCON  AND   MYRINA  185 

terms  of  commerce  rose  like  fair  islets  or  played  like  dol 
phins. 

Glaucon  and  Theodorus  found  enjoyment  in  the  talk  of 
Moschus,  widening  knowledge.  "O  Hermes!"  cried  Glau 
con,  "I  think  that  I  also  have  built  a  boat  and  adventured, 
and  borne  metals  and  weapons  and  oil  and  wine  afar  in 
trade!  How  good  it  is  for  man  to  widen  until  he  brings  all 
within  his  ring!" 

Moschus  at  last  produced  his  tablets  and  the  talk  fell 
to  one  voyage's  profit  and  loss.  Theodorus  dozed  over  his 
wine.  Then  Moschus  and  Glaucon  concluded  their  busi 
ness,  and  Moschus,  standing  up,  thanked  Glaucon  for  good 
entertainment,  and  would  go  to  his  inn  until  dawn  light 
upon  the  road  to  Phalerum.  Shaking  off  sleep,  Theodorus 
declared  he  would  accompany  him,  for  he  had  yet  to  hear 
about  mermaiden.  Sculptor  and  shipmaster  went  away  to 
gether.  Glaucon  drank  wine  and  talked  with  a  trusted 
servant,  then  rising  from  the  couch  left  the  banquet-room 
and  went  to  the  women's  part  of  the  house.  Here  he  found 
Cleita  in  tears. 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "What  is  the  matter,  Cleita?" 

Cleita  continuing  to  weep,  Gorgo  her  maid  undertook  to 
answer.  "O  Glaucon,  my  master,  we  do  not  know!  I  have 
asked  her.  Lycia  here  has  asked  her,  Daphne  has  asked 
her.  For  a  long  time  she  has  been  pining  —  We  would 
have  her  see  the  physician,  but  she  says  she  has  no  suffer 
ing  in  her  body — " 

Cleita  drew  toward  her  a  scarf  of  Egyptian  linen  and 
with  it  wiped  her  eyes.  "  I  am  tired  of  this  house  and  these 
maids!" 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  out  to  the  farm  for  a  time?" 

"I  am  tired  of  that  house  and  those  maids!" 


1 86  THE   WANDERERS 

"What,  then,  Cleita,  do  you  wish  to  do?" 
Cleita  wept  afresh.   "O  ye  gods,  I  do  not  know!" 
Glaucon  drew  a  breath  and  prayed  for  patience.    "Be 
a  reasonable  woman,  Cleita!    Discontent  without  know 
ing  why  —  wanting  things  without  knowing  what  —  is  not 
reason!" 

Cleita  raised  her  head.   "All  day  you  have  been  going 
up  and  down  and  to  and  fro!  You  have  been  entertained." 
"Entertainment  is  not  all  in  life,  my  Cleita." 
"That,  my  master,"  said  Gorgo,  "is  just  what  we  have 
been  telling  her!" 

"  I  never  said  that  it  was,"  said  Cleita.  She  wrapped  her 
head  in  the  Egyptian  scarf  and  again  dropped  it  upon  her 
arms. 

Glaucon  seriously  considered  her.  "Have  you  not  the 
children,  Cleita?  Have  you  not  the  management  of  the 
house?" 

"That,"  said  Gorgo,  "is  unanswerable!" 
Glaucon  sat  upon  the  edge  of  the  couch.  "The  gods, 
Cleita,  have  parted  one  way  of  life  to  women  and  another  to 
men.  Will  you  deny  the  gods  wisdom?  All  of  us,  at  times, 
know  discontent.  The  soldier  thinks  his  life  hard,  the 
statesman  often  would  lay  down  his  cares,  the  mechanic 
grumbles,  the  servant  repines.  But  the  gods  have  willed 
degrees  and  duties.  If  women  —  if  Athenian  wives  and 
mothers  —  went  abroad  from  the  house,  if  they  were  seen 
by  all  men  everywhere,  if  we  met  them  in  the  streets,  the 
market-place,  the  theatre,  the  school,  the  palaestra,  where 
not,  there  would  arise  in  the  state  great  confusion!  In  a 
short  while  we  should  be  no  better  than  barbarians!  But 
the  gods  have  set  comely  bounds  for  women,  as  they  have 
given  to  men  freedom  under  the  sky.  Strive  not  against  the 


GLAUCON  AND  MYRINA  187 

decrees  of  the  gods!  Cease  this  hungering  and  fretting  for 
what  is  not  good  for  you.  There  is  impiety,  O  my  Cleita, 
in  your  discontent!" 

Gorgo  drew  a  breath  of  rapture.  "We  do  not  need  to  go 
to  Delphi!" 

"  Uncover  your  head,  Cleita,"  said  Glaucon.  "  Sit  up  and 
cease  this  weeping!" 

Cleita  lay  still.  Then  she  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow, 
and  drew  the  linen  a  little  aside.  "Myrina — " 

"O  Eros,  give  me  patience!"  thought  Glaucon.  He 
stood  up.  "Myrina — ?" 

"Myrina  lives  free.  The  hetasrae  have  joy  and  light." 

"I  am  speaking,"  said  Glaucon,  "not  of  hetaerae,  but  of 
Athenian  wives  and  mothers."  Cleita  again  sank  her  head. 
Glaucon,  regarding  her,  strove  at  once  to  be  master  and 
wise.  "You  are  a  child,  Cleita!  If  you  smother  there,  you 
have  yourself  to  thank!" 

Nothing  further  coming  from  beneath  the  linen,  he 
turned,  after  waiting  until  he  was  assured  that  it  would 
come  not,  and  left  the  gynecaeum.  Going,  he  said  to  him 
self,  "She  is  a  child!  To-morrow  I  will  buy  her  some  basket 
or  fan  or  piece  of  silk." 

Once  more  in  the  banquet-room  he  sat  down  and  fin 
gered  the  tablets  covered  with  the  accounting  of  Moschus 
the  shipmaster.  At  last  he  pushed  these  aside,  and  with 
his  elbows  upon  the  table  brought  together  his  hands  and 
rested  his  brow  upon  them.  "Myrina  —  Myrina  — 
Myrina !  Deep  and  flowing  and  ever  about  me  like  River- 
Ocean  —  " 

Myrina,  from  her  own  house,  bought  with  earned  gold, 
watched,  too,  that  day,  the  light  upon  Mount  Lycabettus. 
She  saw  it  caress  the  temples  upon  the  Acropolis,  and  of  the 


1 88  THE   WANDERERS 

great  statue  of  Athena  make  a  torch,  a  star,  blazing  gold. 
Myrina,  walking  in  her  garden,  had  driven  a  thorn  into 
her  unsandalled  foot.  After  three  days  it  yet  troubled  her, 
and  this  day  she  would  go  to  the  temple  of  ^Esculapius. 
She  went  in  an  adorned  litter,  borne  by  slaves,  her  nurse 
beside  her,  behind  her  more  slaves.  The  litter's  curtains 
were  partly  drawn  aside.  Athens  might  see  a  beautiful 
woman  within,  and,  coming  closer,  demanding  of  those  who 
knew,  learn  that  it  was  Myrina.  .  .  .  Respect  —  they  gave 
it  in  seeming  abundance.  Here  was  a  learned  and  fair  and 
rich  woman,  with  great  men  for  lovers!  Gradually  there 
grew  about  and  behind  the  moving  litter  a  crowd  of  the 
well-beseen.  Dion  walked  upon  one  side,  Simonides  upon 
the  other.  Myrina  spoke  of  the  thorn  in  her  foot,  and  the 
temple  of  ^Esculapius,  and  then  of  a  new  poet  and  a  new 
song  and  a  new  statue  and  a  new  comedy.  She  had  rich 
laughter;  she  span  a  ball  of  warmth,  and  far  and  wide  made 
it,  rose-hued,  enclose  herself  and  all  that  approached. 
When  they  came  to  the  temple  of  Dionysus,  Daphnis  and 
Menalcas  and  Strephon  joined  the  procession  of  the  litter. 
When  they  came  to  the  plane  trees  and  the  colonnade  and 
the  court  of  the  temple  of  ^Esculapius  the  slaves  brought  the 
litter  close  to  the  ground.  Forth  stepped  Myrina  and  halted 
upon  one  foot.  Arms  were  outstretched,  Strephon's  and 
Daphnis's  eyes  brightened,  they  flushed  rosy-red  when  she 
rested  hand  upon  either,  used  them  as  staves  for  support. 
Priests  of  ^Esculapius  came  to  meet  the  rich  train.  Here 
was  an  inner  court  where  a  fountain  bubbled  clearly  and 
flowers  diffused  their  odours,  and  here  were  seats  of  marble 
for  patients  of  high  note.  Myrina  sat,  and  her  nurse, 
kneeling,  drew  off  the  sandal.  The  light  struck  upon  and 
made  bright  copper  of  Myrina's  red-brown  head. 


GLAUCON   AND  MYRINA  189 

The  physician  came,  examined  the  foot,  at  last  drew  out 
the  troubling  thorn.  "By  Pallas!"  said  Myrina,  "that 
goes  better!  —  I  dreamed,  last  night,  Hippias,  an  old 
dream  of  mine.  I  fought  a  beast  with  fire  in  a  wood.  What, 
servant  of  ^sculapius,  do  you  think  that  that  signifies?" 

"I  think  that  it  signifies,  Myrina,  that  you  dreamed  that 
you  fought  a  beast  with  fire  in  a  wood." 

"Not  so!  I  took  the  dream  to  a  soothsayer.  He  asked  me 
where  I  would  go  this  day,  and  when  I  told  him,  he  said 
that  the  wood  signified  the  new  colonnade,  the  beast  the 
thorn  in  my  foot,  and  the  fire  the  art  of  ^Esculapius.  O 
Proteus's  daughter,  by  name  Interpretation!  What  marvels 
dost  thou  work!" 

Myrina  stood  up.  "Give  me  the  pearl,  Xanthus!  Now 
will  I  go  to  the  altar  and  make  thank-offering." 

The  altar  was  reached  and  the  altar  was  left  by  way  of 
the  main  court  with  the  colonnade  around  it,  and  all  about, 
in  the  sun  and  in  the  shade,  reclining  or  seated  or  stand 
ing,  the  many  who  would  consult  the  servants  of  JEscu- 
lapius.  Here  were  men  and  here  were  women,  and  the 
patients  were  attended  by  friends  and  kindred  or  by  slaves. 
By  all  save  the  too  much  suffering  the  train  of  Myrina  was 
watched  across  and  across  the  temple  court.  Especially 
did  Athenian  wives  and  daughters  watch  the  courtesan, 
watch  with  a  keen  and  jealous  look! 

Myrina,  going  homeward,  drew  her  train  with  her.  It 
was  then  that  she  marked  the  light  upon  Mount  Lyca- 
bettus.  At  her  own  portico  she  sent  away  the  following. 
No,  none  might  enter!  She  was  not  to-night  for  wine  and 
song  and  flowers.  The  slaves  bore  her  litter  through  the 
doors;  the  doorkeeper  brought  clangorously  to  the  leaves, 
dropped  in  place  the  iron  bars.  Those  who  had  convoyed 


190  THE   WANDERERS 

her  home  fell  back,  turned  in  the  narrow  street,  and  went 
off  with  grumbling,  laughter,  and  singing.  "Nowadays, 
nowadays,  only  Glaucon  lives  in  the  world!" 

In  her  chamber,  when  the  lights  had  been  brought, 
Myrina  said  to  the  old  woman,  Phrygia,  her  nurse: 
"Athenians  should  teach  their  wives  better  manners!  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  bathed  in  vinegar!" 

"They  are  jealous,  and  they  would  be  scornful,"  said 
Phrygia,  fastening  the  sandal. 

"Poor,  dull,  wing-clipped,  house-kept  wrens  and  spar 
rows!" 

"You  are  proud  and  would  be  scornful!"  said  Phrygia. 

"Is  it  not  something  to  be  not  as  they  are?" 

"A  many  women  are  slaves  and  poor,"  said  old  Phrygia. 
"And  another  many  are  these  wives  of  free  Hellenes,  liking 
not  bright  birds  loose  in  the  barnyard,  while  they  have  a 
chain  at  the  foot!  And  another  many  are  the  courtesans. 
But  these  struggle  among  themselves,  and  if  their  beauty 
goes  not  even  their  wit  can  save  them." 

"Mother  Demeter!  How  many  have  beauty  and  wit?" 

"Lo,  you,  now,"  said  old  Phrygia,  "how  the  bright  bird 
sings!  Where  the  dark  is  for  so  many,  can  you  hold  the 
light?" 

"Glaucon  — Glaucon!" 

"You  care  for  naught  beside  if  only  you  have  Glau 
con!" 

"Is  there  aught  beside?" 

"Were  all  the  world  afire,  so  that  the  light  made  your 
toy  to  shine — !  So  have  been  others  before  you  and  will 
be  after  you,  mistress!" 

Myrina  lay  down  to  sleep  amid  lambs'  wool  and  fine 
Egyptian  linen.  In  the  bright  dawn  she  waked  and  lay 


GLAUCON   AND   MYRINA  191 

regarding  from  her  warm  bed  the  room  that  the  dawn 
turned  a  pale  rose.  Out  from  the  wall  was  placed  a  statue 
of  the  old-and-young  god  Eros,  and  it  was  a  marvellous 
piece  of  work,  and  Myrina's  eyes  caressed  it.  The  warmth 
of  the  bed  was  good,  the  clear  rose  feel  of  the  room,  the 
just-heard,  slow  breathing  of  the  two  slave-girls  sleeping 
at  the  door.  Myrina  lay  still  and  indolent.  It  was  good  not 
to  have  to  go  forth  and  fend  for  food,  whether  for  yourself 
or  for  others.  .  .  .  Glaucon  —  Glaucon!  .  .  .  Warmth  and 
idleness  wove  ten  thousand  magic  chains. 

Yesterday  he  had  not  come  because  he  had  been  at  the 
Prytaneum.  Her  mind  opened  upon  that  place.  The 
Prytaneum  .  .  .  the  House  of  the  central  hearth,  of  the 
sacred  fire,  the  formal  "Home"  of  the  people.  When 
colonies  went  forth  the  men  took  a  brand  from  the  hearth 
of  the  Prytaneum,  kindled  afar  another  hearth  and  built 
around  it  a  Prytaneum.  The  City  Hearth,  Hall,  Home  — 
the  Country  Hearth  —  the  Hearth  and  Middle  Fire.  .  .  . 
Myrina,  lying  in  the  room  that  was  like  a  shell  tossed  upon 
a  silver  bank,  filled  only  with  the  dream  sound  of  dream 
tides,  saw  as  it  were  the  hearth  afar,  and  the  forms  around 
it,  that  were  all  the  forms  of  men,  for  men  made  that 
hearth  to  glow  and  burn. 

Myrina  turned  upon  her  arm. 

Later  in  the  morning  she  rose  and  bathed,  and  the  slave- 
girls  put  upon  her  a  festival  dress.  To-day  was  to  be  held 
a  celebration,  choice  and  beautiful,  before  the  Temple  of 
Athena  of  the  Victory.  Myrina  would  go  observe  it,  and 
perhaps  afterwards  for  a  little  excursion  beyond  the  walls, 
beside  the  shady  Ilissus.  Glaucon  would  not  come  till 
sunset  —  the  day  must  somehow  be  passed! 

Athena  of  the  Victory  and  her  throng  helped  by  the 


1 92  THE   WANDERERS 

limping  hours.  When  there  was  no  more  good  to  be  gotten 
there  Myrina  proceeded  in  her  litter,  slave-borne,  through 
the  southern  Gate,  and  so  on  to  the  cool,  brown  stream, 
plane-  and  olive-shaded.  Here,  descending  from  the  litter, 
she  sat  upon  a  rich  cloth  that  they  spread  for  her  beneath 
a  tree,  huge,  with  mossed  trunk  and  branches  where  the 
cicadas  were  making  music.  With  her  were  Dion  and 
Simonides,  Phrygia  her  nurse,  and  a  Thessalian  slave-girl. 
Dion  had  a  roll  overwritten  with  poems.  He  read,  and 
they  discussed  the  verses  that  were  read. 

Came  by  an  unsandalled  man  with  a  grey  beard,  and 
gave  them  good-day  beneath  the  tree.  "Good-day,  My 
rina  the  fair  woman  I" 

"Good-day,  Myrrhus  the  philosopher!  Will  you  drink 
with  me  a  cup  of  wine?" 

"That  will  I!"  said  Myrrhus,  "and  with  thanks  for  the 
boon!" 

The  slaves  poured  the  wine,  and  the  philosopher  drank. 
Said  Myrina:  "Dion  and  Simonides  and  I  were  disputing 
—  Make  me  a  gift  in  return,  O  Myrrhus,  and  answer  three 
questions." 

"If  I  may,  I  will,  Myrina  the  fair.  What  is  the  first?" 

"Why,  Myrrhus,  when  the  sculptors  make  great  forms 
of  goddesses  who  are  women,  and  why,  when  the  poets 
write  with  so  great  beauty  of  goddesses  who  are  women, 
and  why  when  all  hearts  grant  to  these,  who  are  surely 
women,  power  and  attributes,  why  do  the  Hellenes  rate 
women  so  low?" 

"Those  others,"  said  Myrrhus,  "  are  Olympian  women." 

"Am  I  answered?  —  This  is  the  second  question.  Does 
^Eschylus  speak  truly  for  Apollo  when  he  causes  him  to 
say  — 


GLAUCON   AND  MYRINA  193 

"'The  mother  bears,  but  never  truly  makes  the  child, 
Only  the  father  makes'?" 

"I,  O  Myrina,  am  not  a  poet  but  a  philosopher.  —  So 
^Eschylus  said  Apollo  said.  —  Women  cry  to  Demeter  for 
many  things,  but  never,  that  I  heard  of,  for  vengeance  upon 
^Eschylus!  So,  none  objecting,  it  must  be  true." 

The  cicadas  made  music  in  the  tree.  Myrina  regarded 
the  dust  at  her  feet.  She  laughed,  a  dry  sound  like  the 
cicadas'  tune.  "Low  things,  rated  lowly,  put  up  low 
claims.  —  Give  me  wine,  Xanthus." 

Dion,  who,  an  he  might,  would  have  had  Glaucon's 
place,  whispered  to  her,  "You  are  not  as  other  women,  but 
sit  among  the  Olympians." 

Myrina  drank  wine,  and  drank  self-praise  and  lover's 
praise,  and  laughed  again,  this  time  with  loosened  and 
golden  throat.  "Here,  O  Myrrhus,  is  the  third  and  easy 
question!  —  What  is  wisdom?" 

"Wisdom  is  to  lift  ourselves  from  ourselves.  —  And  now, 
Myrina,  having  given  gift  for  gift,  I  go  on  to  the  feast  at 
the  house  of  Callicles  the  sophist." 

Myrina,  too,  looked  at  the  sun.  "It  is  in  the  Glaucon 
quarter!"  she  cried  to  herself.  Going  homeward,  she  seemed 
to  listen,  but  was  not  listening  to  those  beside  her.  "Glau 
con  —  Glaucon  —  Glaucon  —  Glaucon  — " 

With  the  last  light  upon  the  mountains  came  Glaucon. 
Much  Athenian  business  had  filled  his  day,  but  now  he  was 
here,  white-robed,  garlanded  and  bright-eyed,  with  arms 
that  strained,  with  lips  that  pressed.  Myrina's  arms 
strained  back,  Myrina's  lips  pressed  his  lips.  "  I  love  you ! " 
said  Myrina.  "I  love  you!" 

They  sat  in  a  flower-decked  room,  and  though  Myrina 
had  flute-girls  playing  in  the  distance,  and  though  slaves 


194  THE  WANDERERS 

came  and  went  bringing  dishes  and  wine,  they  heeded 
these  not. 

"I  love  you!" 

"Hove  you!" 

"I  love  you  most!" 

"No,  I  love  you  most!" 

There  was  something  in  the  word  "most"  that  brought 
them  back  to  it.  That  was  when  they  had  eaten,  though 
sparingly,  when  dishes  had  been  taken  away  but  wine  left, 
when  the  flute-girls  cascading  endlessly  sweet  sound, 
seemed  to  go  farther  away,  when  the  slaves  had  been  dis 
missed  after  bringing  perfumed  lamps,  when  there  was 
before  them  the  round  dark  pearl  of  the  richer  night. 

"You  love  me  not  as  I  love  you!" 

"Ah,  Glaucon!  —  Ah,  Glaucon!" 

"Did  you  love  me  as  I  love  you —  You  were  in  my 
mind  all  day — " 

"And  were  you  not  in  my  mind?" 

"I  know  that  you  went  to  Athena  of  the  Victory.  And 
then  you  would  fare  farther  forth,  be  a  nymph  of  Ilis- 


sus  —  " 


"Were  you  not  in  my  mind  for  all  that?" 

"No!  It  is  not  so  that  you  would  take  absence,  did  you 
love  me  truly!" 

"  Did  you  not  do  many  things  this  day?  Yesterday  also? 
Yet  you  swear  that  you  love  me!" 

"That  is  a  man's  work.  That  must  go  on.  —  But  you, 
alas!  You  rove  in  a  garden  for  pleasure!" 

"You  speak  less  than  the  truth!" 

"  Was  not  Dion  beside  you?  By  Hermes,  I  hear  his  foot 
fall  beside  your  litter!" 

"If  he  was,  what  then?  Am  I  not  free?" 


GLAUCON  AND  MYRINA  195 

"Free?  Who  is  free  that  loves?  I  have  tied  your  chains 
about  my  heart.  Drag  free,  if  you  can!" 

"If  I  love  you  not,  I  am  free!" 

"  So  you  love  me  not,  but  love  Dion ! " 

"Take  your  hand  from  me !  —  What  fiends  are  you  men ! " 

"No!  But  you  are  fiends  — " 

"Loved  —  loved—  " 

"Loved—" 

"Glaucon  —  Glaucon!" 

"Myrina  —  Myrina  —  Myrina!" 

The  two  embraced  with  a  stormy  passion.  They  held 
each  other's  hands.  The  fluting,  fluting  of  the  musicians, 
far  among  the  columns,  hidden  by  flowering  bushes, 
sounded  sweet  as  springtime  on  Olympus.  "  I  have  loved 
you  from  the  first!"  —  "And  I  you!"  —  "I  will  love  you 
always!"  — "And  I  you!" 

Spring  joy,  fair  harmony,  held  while  the  moon  without 
mounted  above  the  olive  trees.  Then,  little  by  little,  again 
the  voices  grew  iron  and  poison  came  into  the  taste. 

"But  if  you  loved  me — !" 

"But  if  you  loved  me — !" 

"Dion's  footfall  beside  your  litter  .  .  .  Strephon's  music 
in  your  ear!  Every  day,  through  Athens,  goes  your  litter, 
and  there  is  drawn  a  throng.  On  high  days,  at  spectacles, 
you  are  pointed  out  to  strangers.  There  is  Myrina,  that 
Glaucon  the  statesman  thinks  loves  him — " 

"  I  would  not  live  indoors  like  a  wife  —  sampling  the  sun 
only  under  favour!" 

"I  would  that  the  law  held  you  by  the  arm  as  it  does  the 
wife—" 

"Father  Zeus,  Poseidon,  Hades  —  these  three  have 
parted  among  them  earth,  sea,  and  sky!  Beneath  Olympus, 


196  THE   WANDERERS 

they  have  given  to  men  their  favourites,  earth  and  sea  and 
sky!  Now,  what  will  men  give  to  women?  Their  love!  — 
Oh,  oh,  their  love!" 

"Woman's  love?  What  is  that?  It  is  craft  —  it  is  sold 
for  ease!  Love  from  the  snake  —  love  from  the  fox  — " 

"Maybe  so,  man  the  wolf!" 

"Will  you  forbid  Dion  and  these  others  your  company? 
Will  you  stay  closely  in  the  house,  go  not  abroad?" 

"And  live  not  till  you  come?  And  live  only  when  you 
come?" 

"Yes!" 

"No!" 

Myrina  and  Glaucon  stood  over  against  each  other,  each 
breathing  hard.  Then  cried  Glaucon,  "You  are  false!  I 
hear  no  music  in  this  house  to-night,  smell  no  flowers!"  He 
lifted  his  robed  arm  between  them,  burst  from  the  room, 
called  to  his  slave  Milo.  Myrina  heard  the  doorkeeper 
opening  the  door  at  his  imperious  word.  Glaucon  was  gone 
in  black  anger  and  jealousy. 

The  nurse  Phrygia  came  into  the  room,  and  found 
Myrina  seated,  Asian  fashion,  upon  the  floor  before  the 
marble  figure  of  Aphrodite. 

"Phrygia,"  said  Myrina,  "men  and  women  are  beings 
without  reason." 

"Will  you  send  for  him  back?" 

"Will  he  come?" 

"If  you  give  him  his  way.  ...  It  is  dangerous  for  you 
to  quarrel  with  a  man  who  is  a  statesman  and  giver  of 
laws!  In  Athens  the  hetaerse  live  free  and  esteemed. 
Change  may  come;  I  would  have  you  beware!" 

"Glaucon  —  Glaucon  —  Glaucon  —  Glaucon!  ...  I  will 
not  send." 


GLAUCON  AND  MYRINA  197 

"Ah,  woman,  yes,  you  will! "  said  Phrygia. 

Light  rose,  light  fell,  rose,  fell,  rose  —  Glaucon  returned 
not.  Myrina  went  abroad  to  temple  and  spectacle.  The 
great  in  Athens  came  about  her;  she  used  beauty  and  wit 
and  a  kind,  even,  of  goodness  —  and  all  the  time  her  heart 
ached  and  ached  and  said,  "Glaucon  —  Glaucon  —  Glau 
con!" 

The  third  day  she  did  not  go  out,  but  sat  all  day  upon 
the  floor  before  the  statue  of  Aphrodite. 

In  the  evening  Phrygia  brought  her  food.  "You  are 
growing  hollow-eyed.  If  you  lose  your  beauty,  night  comes 
down  without  a  star!" 

"Glaucon —  Glaucon!" 

Phyrgia  sat  down  the  silver  dish.  "Listen,  mistress, — 
send  for  Glaucon  —  promise  him  all  he  wishes  —  forswear 
for  him  the  light  of  the  sun  and  the  company,  were  it  so, 
of  the  blessed  gods!  What!  No  state  of  affairs  lives  for 
ever!  His  pride  is  fed  —  mayhap  next  month  he  will  leave 
you  free  again!  Demeter  knows  we  all  are  children!  Yet 
we  must  live  and  keep  the  red  in  our  cheeks  and  the  light 
in  our  eyes.  .  .  .  Man  is  master,  but  we  can  manage  the 
master." 

"All  slaves  alike." 

"Give  in,  and  gain  the  more — " 

"Wolf  and  snake  and  fox." 

"Or,  if  you  do  not  love  him,  let  him  go." 

"How  can  I  do  that?  I  know  not  the  trick." 

"  Say  one  word  only,  and  I  will  put  myself  in  the  way 
to  find  him.  .  .  .  Say  naught,  then!  Stay  only  as  you 
are." 

"For  the  throne  of  Zeus  can  one  pay  too  dear?" 

Old  Phrygia,   rising,   made  to  steal  from  the  place. 


198  THE   WANDERERS 

Myrina  caught  at  her  dress.  "Not  yet  —  not  ever,  if  I 
have  courage!" 

Light  rose,  light  fell,  came  again  a  bright,  a  hot,  and 
dusty  day.  Glaucon  rose  from  no-sleep,  and  went  forth 
upon  Athenian  business.  The  afternoon  found  him  upon 
the  Acropolis,  near  the  precinct  of  Artemis.  He  was  passing 
a  grove  of  olive  and  myrtle  —  the  light  was  sinking  — 
when  he  heard  his  name  breathed. 

He  gestured  to  those  with  him  to  go  on,  he  himself 
turned  under  the  trees.  "Myrina  .  .  ." 

"So  fearing  and  base  a  thing  is  woman  when  she  is 
named  Myrina!  ...  Be  my  lover,  Glaucon,  and  I  will 
forswear  light!" 

"Did  you  come  to  me?  —  I  would,  at  last,  have  come  to 
you!" 

"/  came.  .  .  .  Will  you  go  home  with  me?" 

"I  did  not  wholly  mean  unkindness.  ...  I  am  not  truly 
man  the  wolf." 

'/Will  you  come?  Perhaps  I  am  only  woman  the 
snake." 

Glaucon  went  with  her.  They  went  together  from  the 
Acropolis  into  the  narrow  ways. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   PEARL   OF  THE   DEEP 

MERANES,  the  turbaned  satrap,  had  a  palace  that  to  the 
west  sent  its  gardens  to  the  sea-edge,  and  on  the  east 
opened  sheer  upon  the  ever-humming  hive  that  was  his 
satrapy's  chief  town.  The  palace  owned  a  great,  middle 
body  with  arm-like  processes,  jointed  tentacles  that 
strayed  afar  into  odorous  and  flower-spangled  wildernesses, 
and  all  was  at  once  fantastically  and  strongly  built.  There 
were  gilding  and  mosaic  and  fretwork  that  treated  stone  like 
flax.  The  palace  spread,  many-courted,  myriad-roomed, 
multi-coloured.  On  the  dusky  garden  side  it  was  mingled 
with  trees  and  bloom  and  fruit;  it  knew  deep  alleys  and 
shadowy  rings,  and  stone  water  tanks  where  lilies  were 
planted  and  fish  swam.  But  on  the  town  side  it  rose  blank 
and  clear  from  the  hot  and  clanging  place.  Here  was  the 
official  palace  —  the  palace  of  the  audience,  of  the  satrap's 
government,  of  officials,  soldiers,  magi,  principal  men  and 
the  horde  that  was  not  principal,  spies,  confidants,  mer 
chants  of  sorts,  ministers  and  attendants  of  pleasure,  of 
orders  given  and  received,  of  complaint,  pleading,  demand, 
grievances  and  clamour,  reward  and  punishment,  strife 
open  and  concealed,  jealousy,  rivalry,  lies,  greed,  fanatic 
hate  and  fanatic  devotion,  and  always  a  brew  of  conspira 
cies,  great  and  small,  very  many  small,  and  on  hand  per 
petually  one  or  two  great.  Such  a  cloud  hung  always  over 
it,  hung  garden  side  and  city  side,  for  influences  were  sub 
tle  and  stole  between.  Breathing  that  musk  and  sandal, 


200  THE   WANDERERS 

hearing  always  that  whispering,  governed  Meranes,  sa 
trap  of  a  deep  province,  slave  only  to  the  namer  of  the 
satraps,  the  eastern  king  who  was  despot  of  a  dozen  des 
pots. 

Under  Meranes,  the  governor  of  the  chief  city  was 
Sadyattes.  The  magus  of  most  power  was  Artaxias. 

In  the  middle  palace,  whence  he  might  move  through 
any  arm,  Meranes  had  his  rooms  for  dwelling.  To  the  right, 
he  went  to  the  front  upon  the  clanging  town,  and  the  busi 
ness  of  the  satrapy.  When  he  entered  again  that  middle 
part  he  drew  with  him  confidants  and  favourites  and  made 
for  himself  now  counsel,  now  revelry  and  relaxation.  Or, 
alone  here,  he  spent  much  consideration  upon  how  to  keep 
life,  honour,  and  satrapy,  seeing  that  to  do  so  he  must  ever 
please  that  more  richly  turbaned  despot  who  herded  sa 
traps,  and  about  whose  ears  ever  buzzed  the  maligners.  Or 
he  drew  to  him  certain  of  the  magi  and  talked  with  them, 
for  he  was  a  man  who  trembled  at  times  on  the  edge  of 
seeing  the  unseen  and  touching  the  untouched,  and  the 
magi  were  held  to  be  free  of  the  king's  road  to  knowledge. 
To  the  left,  past  guarded  doors,  movement  brought 
Meranes  where  the  palace  ran,  many-fronded,  into  shad 
ows  of  groves,  into  the  realm  of  slippered  footfall  and 
treble  voices.  Here  were  squandered  wealth,  and  heavy 
odours,  and  the  nightingale's  song.  Here  the  life  of  Me 
ranes  stayed  among  women.  Here  lay  the  filled  seraglio, 
and  here  for  soldiers  stood  the  files  of  eunuchs.  And 
for  all  the  soldiers  and  the  slaves,  for  all  the  blank  walls 
and  guarded  doors,  word-bearing  winds  blew  through  the 
palace  from  the  right  to  the  left  and  the  left  to  the  right. 
Any  part  of  the  palace  might  conspire  with  any  other  part 
against  any  third  part. 


THE  PEARL  OF  THE  DEEP          201 

The  favourite  wife  of  the  satrap  was  Aryenis,  with  just 
below  her,  creeping  at  times  very  nigh  her,  a  woman  of 
Egypt  named  Nitetis.  Each  had  a  son. 

There  were  many  women  beside. 

The  beaded  rooms  and  courts  of  the  seraglio  had  like 
wise  their  order  of  importance,  raying  from  the  highly  so 
to  the  less  highly  so,  and  thence  to  the  hardly  so  at  all. 
Golden  cells  in  the  comb,  stood  the  quarters  of  Aryenis. 
Nitetis,  the  swarthy  Egyptian,  had  the  silver  cells.  These 
two  only  counted  in  seraglio  politics,  each  drawing  with 
her  her  faction.  Next,  in  fair  light,  were  clustered  other 
women  from  the  east  and  the  west,  the  north  and  the 
south.  Around  these,  in  paler  light  and  paler  light,  were 
gathered  others.  .  .  .  Chamber  on  chamber,  the  palace 
was  as  a  whispering  shell.  Ray  on  ray,  range  of  rooms  on 
range  of  rooms,  it  stretched  and  tapered  through  degrees 
of  favour  and  nearness,  into  the  cool  murk  of  obscurity, 
faint  clinging  for  support. 

Aryenis  had  at  her  hand  her  son  Alyattes,  and  Nitetis 
had  at  her  hand  her  son  Smerdis.  The  children  numbered 
five  and  six  years.  Aryenis  being  first  with  Meranes,  the 
palace,  the  city  and  the  province  called  Alyattes  the  sa 
trap's,  heir  —  called  him  so  with  emphasis  since  last  year 
when  Meranes,  taking  the  lad  with  him  into  the  presence 
of  the  king  of  the  whole  land  who  was  making  progress, 
prostrated  himself  with  his  son,  and  besought  continu 
ance  of  favour  toward  Alyattes  after  Meranes  had  re 
turned  to  the  fire  whence  he  came.  Surely  Alyattes  was 
heir!  The  magi,  tutors  of  the  children,  taught  the  young 
Smerdis  to  give  up  to,  to  follow  the  lead  of  his  brother. 
Also  Aryenis  taught  Alyattes  that  he  was  first,  as  she  taught 
Nitetis  that  she,  Aryenis,  was  first.  The  Egyptian  woman, 


202  THE   WANDERERS 

dark-skinned,  black-browed,  and  rose-lipped,  somewhat 
younger  than  the  other,  drew  up  her  shoulders,  slid  by.  .  .  . 

Meranes,  fatigued  from  hunting,  came  to  the  bath,  was 
refreshed  and  clad  in  silk  and  gems.  In  the  round  room  of 
the  silver  palms  he  sat  before  food,  and  when  he  had  eaten, 
and  drank  somewhat  sparingly  of  wine,  he  gave  orders  to 
admit  to  him  the  magus  Artaxias.  Waiting  for  him,  he 
took  in  his  hands  a  curiously  shaped  box  filled  with  fine 
sand,  ir-  a  cup  beside  it  golden  balls  the  size  of  pearls.  The 
balls  were  for  casting  upon  the  smoothed  sand,  and  the 
figures  they  made  a  sign-writing,  vouchsafed  by  destiny. 
Meranes,  seated  on  rich  cushions,  gathered  the  balls  in  his 
hand  and  cast  them,  then  strove  to  read.  The  satrap  was 
dark  and  bright  of  eye,  well  made,  bearing  power  in  his 
look.  He  cast  the  balls  and  brooded  over  the  plain  of  sand. 
It  expanded  beneath  his  imagination  into  desert  width. 

Artaxias  approached,  stood  in  flowing  robes.  "Here  is  a 
strange  figure,"  said  Meranes.  "I  cannot  read  it!" 

The  magus  stooped  beside  him.  "O  Meranes,  that  is  the 
scorpion  of  Egypt.  —  Look  for  trouble  from  Egypt!" 

"As  you  know,  that  is  come,"  said  Meranes.  "They 
attack  the  southern  borders.  I  go  against  them  with  ten 
thousand  men." 

"I  know,  O  Satrap!  Perhaps  it  is  all  the  woe." 

"Last  night  I  watched  the  stars  from  the  edge  of  the 
jungle.  Sadyattes  and  I  who  had  hunted  together,  watched 
them  together." 

"If  the  lion  will  make  Sadyattes  his  brother,  who,  O 
Meranes,  will  say  the  lion  nay?" 

"Sadyattes  is  faithful." 

"Says  the  sand  so  and  the  stars  so?" 

"Says  my  heart  so." 


THE  PEARL  OF   THE  DEEP          203 

"Says  the  fact  so?  The  truth  of  the  fact,  O  Meranes,  is 
what  I  seek!" 

"  Should  I  not  seek  it  too  —  a  man  encompassed  by 
dangers?  Do  I  not  know  that  this  one  conspires  and  that 
one  conspires?  But  Sadyattes  is  my  old  heart's  friend 
whom  I  trust." 

"The  worst  betrayers  call  themselves  hearts'  friends! 
Let  us  try  the  balls  again."  Taking  the  box  he  smoothed 
the  sand,  shook  the  balls  in  his  hand  and  cast  them.  There 
appeared  a  tracing  that  might  be  made  into  the  figure  of  a 
child.  "The  genii  have  sent  a  good  sign!"  said  Artaxias. 
"I  read  it  that  they  have  in  care  the  young  Alyattes." 
He  examined  the  field  more  closely.  "He  lies  as  in  a  peace 
ful  sleep." 

Meranes  looked  at  the  figure  of  the  child.  With  his  own 
hand  he  smoothed  the  sand,  then  put  the  box  aside.  "We 
watched  the  stars,  and  there  was  a  passing  of  beings  bear 
ing  lights  from  one  quarter  of  the  heaven  to  another."  He 
drank  wine.  "  I  go  against  the  host  attacking  the  southern 
border.  On  the  way  thither  there  is  a  disloyal  town  shall 
be  razed  to  the  earth.  In  the  prison  here  wait  men  who 
carried  false  tales  to  the  king,  and  ere  I  go  they  die  in  sight 
of  me  and  of  the  town.  Artificers  build  me  a  new  palace 
among  the  hills,  and  there  comes  to  me  from  my  brother 
Seleuces  a  gift  of  a  hundred  golden  bowls,  a  hundred  em 
broidered  robes,  and  a  hundred  slaves  chosen  from  ten 
thousand.  .  .  .  Yet,  in  the  round  room  of  my  inward 
thought,  these  things  are  only  winds  and  odours!  .  .  . 
What  is  this  world  and  what  is  Meranes?" 

The  room  of  the  silver  palms  was  dimmed  for  coolness 
and  every  casement  opened  to  the  night.  Meranes,  rising 
from  the  cushions,  looked  forth,  either  hand  upon  carved 


204  THE   WANDERERS 

stone.  The  star  he  thought  of  as  peculiarly  his  own  shone 
at  this  hour  and  season  above  a  pillar  set  between  trees. 
Meranes  watched  it,  white,  far,  and  bright.  "How  long 
has  it  burned,  and  how  long  will  it  burn?  Whence  came  it 
at  first  and  where  will  it  go?  What  are  its  adventures,  and 
what  is  their  weight?" 

The  magus  stood  beside  him.  "Part  of  the  star  is  dark 
and  part  of  the  star  is  light.  The  dark  would  grow  —  the 
light  would  grow  —  and  they  stand  in  each  other's  path. 
And  yet  is  there  but  one  star!  Then  comes  on  the  train 
of  happenings,  and  the  sound  in  the  ears  of  victory  and 
defeat.  .  .  .  That  is  the  star,  and  you  are  of  the  star,  and 
partly  dark  and  partly  light."  He  wrote  in  the  air  with 
his  finger.  "May  the  light  grow!" 

When  an  hour  had  passed  the  magus  went  from  the 
satrap's  company.  Meranes  paced  the  room  alone,  then 
clapped  his  hands.  Attendants  came.  The  master  would 
go  now  to  the  seraglio.  At  his  command  word  had  been 
sent,  when  he  returned  from  hunting,  to  Aryenis. 

In  her  country's  dress,  Aryenis  sat  by  the  fountain  from 
which  the  palace  took  its  name  —  the  Palace  of  the  Foun 
tain.  It  was  a  great  marvel,  the  fountain,  and  by  ancient 
prescription  held  to  belong  to  the  chief  wife,  the  favourite 
in  the  seraglio,  the  woman  lifted  by  favour  to  the  highest 
rank  a  woman  might  attain.  It  had  been  called  Aryenis's 
since  her  bringing  to  the  seraglio. 

Meranes  came  and  Aryenis  made  obeisance.  The  satrap 
raised  her  and  held  her  in  his  arms.  Far  off  there  was  mu 
sic  playing,  the  fountain  bubbled,  tinkled,  sent  its  spray 
where  fell  upon  it  coloured  light.  The  place  that  was  a  great 
and  richly  carven  room,  held  eunuchs,  slave-women,  min 
isters  and  attendants  of  pleasure.  "Go  from  hearing," 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE   DEEP  205 

said  Meranes,  and  the  lines  fell  back,  leaving  the  fountain 
and  a  rich  carpet  spread  beside  it.  The  one  man  and 
woman  sat  embraced  by  the  talking  water. 

"You  are  going  against  Egypt?" 

"Yes." 

"Nitetis  will  not  like  that!" 

"This  land  is  Nitetis's  land." 

"True,  true!  —  Your  land,  Meranes." 

"Is  Alyattes  sleeping?" 

"Yes Would  you  look?" 

Rising  she  led  him  through  curtained  archways  to 
where,  watched  by  slave-women,  the  child  lay  sleeping 
upon  a  golden  bed.  "Alyattes!  .  .  ." 

"He  grows  tall.  .  .  .  When  I  return  he  must  leave  the 
seraglio." 

A  spasm  crossed  Aryenis's  face.  "Is  he  so  tall,  lord?  .  .  . 
Leave  him  a  little  longer!" 

"He  is  ripe  to  be  taken  from  women,  placed  among 
men.  What!  Do  you  not  see  him  where  he  shall  grow  to 
be  the  king  palm  of  the  grove?" 

"Yes,  yes!  I  see  him  climbing  steps  of  thrones.  .  .  . 
Alyattes!" 

"Come  back  to  the  fountain.  .  .  .  Were  your  heart 
parted,  would  the  larger  piece  fall  to  Alyattes?  I  think  it 
would  —  I  think  it  would !  .  .  .  Meranes,  the  lesser  man,  to 
have  the  lesser  gift." 

"Lord,  thou  art  the  man.   Alyattes  is  a  young  child." 

"If  a  spirit  appeared  and  said,  *  Choose  between  his  life 
and  Meranes!'" 

"Meranes,  I  do  not  have  to  choose." 

"If  — if— " 

Aryenis  bent  her  knees,  touched  the  palms  of  her  out- 


206  THE   WANDERERS 

spread  hands,  touched  her  forehead  between,  to  the  pave 
ment.  "Lord  and  master!  How  could  I  choose  the  child?" 

Meranes  stooped  to  her,  strained  her  form  to  his,  kissed 
her  lips  and  throat  and  bosom.  "Pearl  of  the  Deep  — 
Pearl  closed  in  my  hand!  Long  have  we  loved!" 

"Long  — long." 

"Out  of  me  were  you  drawn." 

"Out  of  you." 

"The  sun  and  the  earth  —  the  ocean  and  the  river  — " 

"The  sun  and  the  earth  —  the  ocean  and  the  river  — " 

"Aryenis  —  Aryenis!" 

"Smite  Egypt  and  return!  —  The  Egyptian  here!  Will 
you  visit  her,  Meranes,  before  you  go  —  her  son  and  her?" 

She  drew  upon  sorceress-power,  and  before  he  left  the 
room  of  the  fountain  won  from  him  his  word  that  he  would 
leave  in  the  shadow  that  Egyptian.  ...  It  seemed  that 
Nitetis  had  as  well  be  returned  to  Egypt  whence  she  had 
been  bought! 

^  But  the  next  day  a  slave  won  way  to  Meranes,  fell  before 
him,  then,  being  bidden  to  speak,  gave  a  manner  of  sor 
ceress-message  from  Nitetis.  At  first  said  the  satrap,  "I 
do  not  go, "  then,  when  the  eunuch  was  backing  from  the 
room,  recalled  him.  "I  may  come,  I  may  not  come.  Say 
only  that."  .  .  .  That  same  day,  finding  an1  hour  with 
naught  of  moment  set  against  it,  he  went  to  that  part  of 
the  seraglio  given  to  the  Egyptian.  He  found  Nitetis  prone 
upon  cushions,  her  body  wrapped  in  stuff  thin  and  dark  as 
the  air  of  night,  her  blue-black  hair  dishevelled.  In  the 
distance  Smerdis  played  with  a  ball. 
\:  "My  lord,  my  lord,  you  go  to  danger!  I  see  javelins  in 
the  air,  I  see  arrows,  I  see  daggers,  swords  — " 

"Do  I  not  every  day  eat  and  drink  with  danger?  Rule 


THE   PEARL  OF   THE   DEEP  207 

here,  fight  there  —  everywhere  alike  leaps  the  wolf,  creeps 
the  serpent!" 

"Who  keeps  the  city?  Who  keeps  us  for  my  lord  until 
he  returns?" 

"Sadyattes  keeps  the  city." 

"Oh,  when  you  are  gone  Aryenis  will  rule  us  heavily,  us 
here  in  the  Fountain  Palace!  Oh,  when  you  are  gone  your 
son  Smerdis  must  say  'my  lord'  to  Alyattes!  Oh,  Aryenis 
gloats  upon  power,  envies  power.  Oh,  she  would  snatch  it, 
if  she  might,  even  from  Meranes's  hand!" 

"Would  you  not,  if  you  could,  Egyptian,  strangle 
Aryenis?" 

"Would  she  not  strangle  me?  Would  she  not,  for  her 
son,  strangle  my  son  and  yours,  Meranes  ?  Would  she  not 
do  more  than  that  — ?  Oh,  let  me  speak  now,  for  when  you 
are  gone  I  shall  not  speak!  I  shall  creep  by  the  wall,  I  shall 
keep  Smerdis  with  me  in  the  shadow — " 

"Who  loves  me  will  hurt  nothing  that  is  mine  —  not 
Smerdis,  not  Nitetis!" 

Nitetis  raised  herself  upon  her  palms,  looked  at  him  from 
between  fine  waves  of  blackness.  "O  lord,  ruler  and  god  of 
me!  Let  thy  slave  tell  thee  a  fault  of  the  lion!  It  is  not  to 
deign  to  suspect  other  wills  and  purposes  moving  in  the 
plain  and  the  jungle,  for  that,  O  my  king,  would  hurt  the 
pride  of  the  lion!"  With  her  hands  she  drew  her  hair  about 
his  feet.  "But  I,  my  lord,  who  am  only  a  woman  out 
of  Egypt,  can  see  the  serpent  and  her  rings  and  guile! 
And  I  who  am  naught  can  see  because  of  utter  love,  utter 
love,  utter  love  of  Meranes!" 

She  put  her  lips  against  his  feet.  "Slay  me  if  you  will! 
And  with  my  last  breath  I  will  say  that  only  the  Egyptian 
here,  that  only  the  Egyptian  here,  loved  you,  Meranes!" 


208  THE  WANDERERS 

"What  is  the  serpent  that  you  see?" 

"Ah,  I  know  not,  though  I  seem  to  see  a  face!"  Nitetis 
raised  herself  to  her  knees,  lifted  her  head  and  laid  it  upon 
the  satrap's  arm.  "And  Sadyattes  keeps  the  city  —  Sady- 
attes  who  came  from  Aryenis's  country." 

Smerdis,  playing  in  the  middle  court  with  Alyattes 
said,  "My  father  and  my  mother  play  together."  After 
a  while  Alyattes,  leaving  the  court  and  going  to  his  mother 
where  she  lay  in  the  room  of  the  fountain,  said,  "Mother, 
the  lady  Nitetis  and  my  father  play  together!  Smerdis  told 


me." 


At  sunset  the  gardens  filled  with  the  inmates  of  the  se 
raglio.  Through  the  day  they  had  stayed  for  coolness  in 
jalousied  rooms,  or  upon  the  violet  side  of  pillared  courts. 
Now  they  came  out  under  sky,  though  yet,  all  around 
them,  ran  the  wall  that  could  not  be  scaled,  that  could  not 
be  pierced.  Mist  rose  from  the  water  tanks,  hung  between 
the  trees;  heavy  white  flowers  opened  disk  and  cup,  heavy 
sweet  odours  drifted  and  clung,  moths  appeared,  and  all 
the  life  of  the  dusk.  Women  moved  or  sat  or  lay  under  the 
spice  trees,  the  fig  trees,  the  palms,  the  tamarisks  and 
cedars.  Those  who  were  young  and  beautiful  were  richly 
dressed.  Those  who  were  old  or  ill-shaped  or  ill-favoured 
were  work-slaves  only  and  as  such  marked  by  a  mean  and 
fantastic  garb.  Eunuchs  moved  through  the  gardens,  and 
they,  too,  were  made  into  grotesques. 

Aryenis,  attended,  with  her  Alyattes  that  was  to  be  the 
satrap's  heir,  entered  a  walk  that  was  loved  by  Nitetis  and 
given  over  to  her  by  the  etiquette  of  the  place.  Here  was 
the  Egyptian,  Smerdis  beside  her.  The  two  lay  beside  a 
stone  basin  where  stood  a  rose-and-white  flamingo,  where 
upon  a  mound  of  earth  a  tortoise  crawled. 


THE   PEARL  OF  THE  DEEP  209 

Said  Aryenis,  "All  mud  of  the  Nile." 

Nitetis  lifted  herself.  "Meranes,  that  is  master,  has  not 
yet  departed.  —  Pearl  of  the  Deep,  ,who,  between  the  first 
and  now,  has  known  every  merchant's  stall!" 

Said  Aryenis:  "Ah,  god  to  whom  mounts  the  fire!  Have 
I  known  many  markets?  Then  did  I  learn  in  them  more 
than  your  one  land  could  teach!" 

"Yet  it  gives  me  hold  on  Meranes!"  Nitetis  raised  her 
self  from  the  rock,  the  tortoise,  the  flamingo  basin.  She 
smiled.  "Have  you  noted  that  Smerdis  grows  as  tall  as 
Alyattes?"  •; 

Aryenis  drew  her  veil  around  her.  Only  her  eyes  showed. 

"O  her  eyes  glitter!"  said  Nitetis  inwardly,  and  brought 
glitter  into  her  own. 

"Were  I  Alyattes,  and  grown,  I  should  nightly  thank  the 
stars  that  I  was  not  Smerdis!"  said  Aryenis.  The  Egyp 
tian  drew  her  shoulders  together,  made  under  her  breath 
an  incantation. 

Meranes  went  with  a  force  of  horse  and  foot  against  the 
troubles  of  the  southern  boundaries.  His  lances  gleamed, 
his  pennants  waved,  his  drums  beat,  the  city  saw  him  forth, 
the  skies  hung  hot,  blue  crystal,  the  throng  shouted,  the 
sand  whirled  in  the  street.  Sadyattes,  governor  of  the  city, 
armed  his  gates  and  his  walls  and  esteemed  that  he  had 
months,  one,  two,  and  three,  in  which  to  bring  to  fruition 
a  long-mellowing  piece  of  work.  Three  days  after  Meranes 
went  forth,  Sadyattes  listened,  in  a  secret  place,  to  a  foster- 
brother  returned  from  an  errand  forth  from  the  province, 
errand  to  the  court  of  the  king  who  made  straps. 

The  foster-brother,  greetings  given,  felt,  with  an  expres 
sive  gesture,  his  head  upon  his  shoulders.  "So  near  death 
do  you  walk  when  you  go  to  twist  and  to  draw  and  to  push 


2io  THE   WANDERERS 

power  out  of  the  road  of  power!  —  Here  is  the  matter  in 
small  space.  Were  Meranes  proved  ambitious,  that  is  to 
say,  proved  traitorous,  then  the  prover,  were  he  Sadyattes, 
might  have  the  satrapy.  Does  Sadyattes  fail  in  proving, 
let  him  beware,  having  annoyed!" 

Sadyattes  stretched  his  arms,  then  stroked  a  black 
beard.  "I  shall  not  fail.  You  shall  go  again  to  the 
mighty  king,  for  now  I  have  this  and  that  for  you  to 
take!" 

The  foster-brother  went,  and  after  weeks  the  foster- 
brother  returned.  "There  is  this.  Sadyattes  is  satrap  when 
Meranes  and  his  son  Alyattes  are  out  of  the  way.  But  the 
great  king  is  busy,  being  troubled  with  rebellions  and  con 
spiracies  like  unto  locusts  for  number!  He  has  need  at  this 
time  for  all  his  strength  at  home.  If  he  summoned  Meranes 
he  might  be  suspicious  and  not  come.  If  he  said,  'Give  over 
your  satrapy!'  the  revolt  that  Meranes  now  only  meditates 
in  his  mind  might  rise  at  once  like  a  giant  in  the  way. 
Meranes  has  with  him  so  many  thousand  soldiers  who,  it  is 
said,  die  easily  for  him.  Moreover,  he  is  putting  down  this 
trouble  to  the  south,  and  it  must  be  put  down,  and  Meranes 
still  used  to  do  it,  for  he  does  it.  But  the  southern  trouble 
over,  it  were  well  that  Meranes  and  his  son  with  him  were 
taken  off  at  once  and  with  subtlety.  If  it  were  managed 
with  secrecy,  without  revolt  or  trouble,  then  the  great  king 
sees  as  in  a  dream  that  the  satrapy  would  pass  to  Sadyattes 
who  is  a  skilful  holder  of  strong  places  and  a  gatherer  and 
forwarder  of  wealth.  But  the  king  must  be  saved  annoy 
ance." 

"I  will  spare  the  mighty  king,"  said  Sadyattes. 

The  sky  stayed  hot,  blue  crystal,  the  wind  lifted  the 
dust  in  the  streets,  the  wind  shook  the  leaves  of  the  date 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE   DEEP  211 

trees,  the  fig  trees,  the  spice  trees  of  the  gardens.  Swift 
horsemen  rode  in  with  tidings;  there  was  travel  of  mes 
sengers  between  the  force  in  the  south  and  the  jewel-city 
of  the  satrapy.  Riders  from  the  south  said,  "Meranes  is 
a  great  victor.  His  soldiers  shout  his  name!"  Going  from 
the  town  they  said,  "Meranes,  all  is  well!  Sadyattes  holds 
faithfully  the  city,  and  faithfully  your  Palace  of  the  Foun 
tain,  your  wives  and  your  son  Alyattes." 

Meranes  fought  every  day,  moved  among  his  soldiers 
every  day,  received  submissions  every  day.  Meranes  said 
to  himself,  "I  am  firmly  fixed;  I  am  like  the  star,  around 
which  the  others  go!" 

A  horseman  brought  a  message  to  Sadyattes  the  gov 
ernor:  "Meranes  to  Sadyattes,  greeting!  I  have  set  my 
heel  upon  rebellion.  I  and  my  army  take,  next  week,  the 
road  to  the  city." 

In  the  garden  of  the  Palace  of  the  Fountain  certain 
eunuchs  answered  a  certain  word  and  at  night  received  a 
climber  over  the  wall  at  the  angle  nearest  the  sea.  When 
he  came  down  among  them  they  gave  him  a  dress  like  their 
own,  and  one  took  colouring  matter  and  darkened  his  face 
and  changed  its  lines.  Then  he  went  with  them,  by  the 
moonlight  walks  down  which  floated  laughter  and  singing 
and  the  tinkling  of  castanets. 

There  stood  a  pavilion  by  a  pool  where  lilies  grew.  Two 
slave-girls  met  the  eunuchs  here,  and  there  followed  whis 
pering.  Then  the  servitors  of  the  seraglio  stood  aside,  but 
the  man  who  had  climbed  the  wall  went  on.  At  the  en 
trance  of  the  pavilion  he  encountered  a  third  slave-woman 
together  with  a  black,  as  huge  as  Africa.  These  two  also 
answered  the  sign  he  made,  and  quitting  the  doorway  went 
and  sat  by  the  edge  of  the  pool.  Sadyattes  came  into  the 


212  THE  WANDERERS 

pavilion  and  the  presence  of  Aryenis.   She  sat,  veiled,  in 
the  moonlight. 

"Did  you  bring  that  letter,  Sadyattes,  that  through 
those  in  your  pay,  you  said  that  you  had  to  bring?  I  have 
here  a  lamp  to  read  it  by."  As  she  spoke  she  uncovered 
the  small  flame  burning  in  a  golden  boat. 

Sadyattes  bent  before  her.  "Pearl of  the  Deep!  climbing 
the  wall  I  came  here,  at  the  peril  of  my  life,  to  show  it  — " 

"And  of  mine.   Well,  show— " 

Sadyattes  put  out  his  hand  and  touched  her  veil.  "Do 
you  remember,  before  you  came  to  the  Fountain  Palace,  to 
Meranes's  arms,  do  you  remember,  Aryenis,  a  diver  whose 
hand  might  have  gathered  you  where  you  lay  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  sea?  But  a  wave  turned  him  aside,  as  a  wave 
brought  you  here!" 

"I  remember  the  diver,  Sadyattes.  But  though  I  lay 
in  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  I  was  even  there  for  none  but 
Meranes!  In  water,  in  earth,  in  fire,  in  this  time,  in  that 
time,  in  all  times,  I  and  Meranes  have  been,  are,  and  will 
be  for  each  other!" 
•  "Nitetis— " 

"Nitetis  is  mirage,  false  showing — " 

"The  false  is  best  loved." 

"How  will  you  show  me  that,  diver?" 

"Though  you  speak  strongly,  yet  will  you  act  as  the 
jealous  act,"  thought  Sadyattes,  "and  as  the  fearful  and 
the  proud!"  Aloud  he  said,  "You  have  sent  messages  of 
love  by  swift  horsemen  to  Meranes.  None  have  come  back 
to  you." 

"  I  might  know  that  the  governor  of  the  city  would  know 
that.  Meranes  saves  his  love  words  till  he  comes.  I  shall 
hear  them  falling,  falling  beside  the  fountain!" 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE  DEEP  213 

"Nitetis  sent  also.  He  has  sent  love  words  back  to 
Nitetis." 

"Ah!" 

"Then  she  sent  again  to  him.  And  with  her  love  words 
went  words  of  poison." 

"Against  me?" 

"Against  you  and  against  Alyattes." 

Aryenis  laughed.  "The  Nile  uncleannessl  —  But  Me- 
ranes  listened  not!" 

"Oh,  Egypt  is  subtle,  Aryenis!" 

"She  is  Ahriman's  slave!  —  What  lie  did  she  make  to 
Meranes?" 

"  Powers  moving  about  this  place  have  used  her.  There 
is  a  great  plot." 

"What  lie?" 

Sadyattes  drew  from  his  girdle  a  written-over  paper. 
"This  is  for  Nitetis,  from  Meranes.  It  was  to  have  been 
taken  by  the  hand  of  the  magus  Artaxias  —  my  enemy,  as 
well  you  know,  Pearl  of  the  Deep!  I,  having  many  ways, 
received  the  paper  first.  Read  Aryenis.  .  .  .  Meranes's 
hand  and  seal." 

Aryenis  thought  that  it  was  so,  for  indeed  the  letter  was 
finely  forged.  Sadyattes  and  that  foster-brother  and  a  ring 
of  principal  men,  with  many  a  subtle  helper  that  was  not 
seen  to  be  principal,  had  wrought  well  toward  making  a 
fine,  envenomed  instrument  for  their  purposes,  and  the 
letter  was  great  aid  thereto.  "Read,"  said  Sadyattes,  and 
Aryenis  read  Nitetis's  name  and  love  terms  around  it,  and 
lines  that  followed,  and  Meranes's  name,  and  all  in  the 
hand,  so  she  thought,  of  Meranes.  She  read  in  a  voice  that 
was  a  gathered  sheaf  of  myriads  of  voices  —  old  and  old 
voices. 


214  THE   WANDERERS 

"  The  pearl  that  is  false,  I  will  bray  in  a  mortar.  The  rose 
that  is  true,  I  will  set  at  the  height  of  the  garden.  .  .  . 

"They  call  her  the  rose.  —  Meranes!  Meranes!" 

"Read  —  read!"  said  Sadyattes. 

"  The  rose  that  is  true,  I  will  set  at  the  height  of  the  garden. 
The  bud  that  is  mine  and  the  rose's,  I  will  cherish,  but  the 
false  son  will  I  blind  and  turn  into  the  desert  /  .  .  . 

"  The  palace  is  falling,  there  are  waves  that  are  rising." 

"Read  —  read!"  said  Sadyattes. 

"  The  one  that  I  left  in  a  high  place  shall  curse  the  day  of  his 
birth!" 

"That  is  I,  Sadyattes,  the  diver." 

"Aaah!" 

"Egypt  told  him  this:  'Sadyattes  the  diver  has  touched 
the  pearl  that  the  satrap  thinks  gleams  only  for  him ! '  Egypt 
gave  him  names  of  these  and  these  in  the  Palace  of  the 
Fountain  who  would  swear  to  that  diver's  coming  near. . . . 
Many  are  against  Aryenis  and  with  Nitetis,  meaning  to 
climb  by  her.  There  are  magi,  there  are  captains  who 
would  see  Sadyattes  hurled  from  the  tower,  and  Artaxias 
governor  in  his  place.  .  .  .  Powers  in  the  palace  and  the 
city  are  moving  against  you." 

"Give  me  that  paper  to  tear  and  to  burn! " 

"No  —  no!  —  Pearl  of  the  Deep,  Meranes  returns  pre 
sently  to  the  city  and  the  Palace  of  the  Fountain.  Says 
Nitetis,  'Lord,  no  word  at  the  last  had  I  from  you!'  Then 
says  the  satrap,  'This  same  Sadyattes,  this  diver,  has  had 
to  do  with  that !  There  is  a  plot  beneath  my  plotting.  I  will 
not  wait  even  the  day  I  meant  to  wait,  but  have  him  thrust 
into  the  dungeon  below  the  dungeon  —  " 

"I  will  send  this  day  a  letter,  indeed,  to  Meranes — " 

"To  let  pass  your  messenger  would  slay  me  and  you 


THE   PEARL   OF  THE  DEEP          215 

and  Alyattes.  —  Mark  how  deeply  the  fountain  is  poi 
soned!" 

"The  horns  are  blowing,  the  drums  are  beating  Me- 
ranes's  return.  .  .  .  When  he  comes,  when  he  sees,  me, 
when  I  speak  with  him  —  " 

"Are  you  so  strong  in  faith?  All  this  place  whispers  that 
for  two  years  the  Egyptian  has  gained !  —  Meranes  leaves 
the  sea  for  the  river." 

"I  will  choke  her  mouth  with  sand,  I  will  make  her  salt 
with  tears,  I  will  bear  her  back  and  shred  her  afar  in  the 
desert!" 

"How  without  sight  and  low-minded  is  Meranes,  lying 
in  Nitetis's  arms,  saying,  'Smerdis,  my  heir — '" 

"Meranes!" 

"Giving  Alyattes,  his  son,  to  Sadyattes  the  diver." 

"Alyattes!  Alyattes!" 

"He  will  put  out  the  child's  eyes  —  thrust  him  forth  to 
beg  —  send,  maybe,  to  him  the  executioner  — "  The  gov 
ernor  of  the  city  clasped  in  his  hands  her  veil.  "Pearl  of 
the  Deep!  Look  upon  Sadyattes  the  diver  —  upon  me  and 
you  and  the  boy  Alyattes — " 

"I  see  Meranes  in  a  ring  of  fire." 

"Protecting  fire.  And  safe  clasped  with  him  there  Ni- 
tetis  and  Smerdis!  And  you  and  me  and  Alyattes  without 
upon  the  desert  sand."  / 

"Yes,  just!" 

"Were  there  a  gate  to  enter — " 

"I  would  creep  through  and  sting." 

" Nitetis  alone— ?" 

"Smerdis,  too." 

"How  would  you  fare,  then,  with  Meranes?  And  Aly 
attes  —  how  would  he  fare  ?  Hatred,  torment,  and /death ! " 


216  THE   WANDERERS 

"To  sting  all  to  sleep  —  all  to  sleep  —  all  .  .  ." 

"The  three.  .  .  .  And  there  is  left  Alyattes,  the  satrap's 
son,  who  may  one  day  be  satrap  —  Sadyattes  aiding!  .  .  . 
I  see  him  riding,  riding,  the  great  satrap  —  shining  with 
jewels,  living  long  and  splendidly,  giving  his  mother  honour 
who  set  him,  true-born  in  the  true-born's  place!" 

"Meranes!  Meranes!" 

"Hopeless  now  to  make  him  see  or  hear  or  know  — 
she  has  been  gaining  so  long!  .  .  .  Who  will  sit  here  by 
the  fountain  when  you  are  gone,  strangled  and  cast  into  the 
sea,  fed  to  the  fishes  there?  One  will  sit  here,  bred  by 
the  Nile,  younger  than  you  —  Where  will  be  Alyattes  ?  But 
Smerdis  will  be  here,  to  be  satrap  after  the  satrap!" 

"Water  for  the  thirsty  —  revenge  for  the  smitten  and 
scorned  — " 

"Here,  grovelling  and  death  —  there  triumph,  some 
sweetness,  some  gain!" 

"He  has  earned  it.  ...  To  creep  across  the  ring  of  fire, 
no  matter  though  it  burns,  and  sting  and  sting  and 
sting  .  .  ." 

Over  the  walls,  down  in  the  town,  came  a  blowing  of 
trumpets.  'Aryenis's  lips  parted,  she  raised  her  hands,  she 
tore  the  veil  from  her  face  and  bosom,  she  panted  for  air. 
So  huge,  so  strong  of  life  was  the  passion  that  she  felt  that 
it  gained  transforming  power.  She  lifted  herself,  she  stood 
with  her  body  slightly  swaying.  Her  eyes  lengthened  and 
narrowed,  a  strange  smile  came  upon  her  lips.  "Meranes 
will  you  hurt  me?  Then  will  I  hurt  you.  Look,  look  where 
you  set  your  foot!"  —  Her  voice  had  a  droning  sound. 
With  a  circling  motion,  her  body  came  to  the  ground,  lay 
there  wrapped  in  a  wide  veil  of  spangled  gauze. 

Sadyattes,  crouching  beside  her,  showed  her  another 


THE  PEARL  OF  THE  DEEP          217 

false  writing.  "See,  this  is  the  plot  of  Nitetis  and  the 
magus  Artaxias,  the  eunuchs  Arses  and  Bagios,  and  of  my 
kinsman  Cyaxeres  who  would  be  governor  when  I  am 
thrown  from  the  tower!  There  are  also  the  magi  who  are 
tutors  of  Smerdis." 

"Nitetis,  take  Smerdis  in  your  arms  and  drink  both  of 
you  of  what  I  give  you  I  —  And  you  drink,  too,  Meranes!" 

Blue  skies  hung  over  the  Palace  of  the  Fountain,  and 
sunlight  searched  out  its  ranges  of  rooms.  Black  skies, 
picked  out  with  stars,  hung  over  it;  night  rilled  its  corri 
dors.  Sandal  and  musk  breathed  through  it.  Coloured 
lights  flared  in  strangely  shaped  lamps,  there  went  a  whis 
pering  of  leaves,  of  waters  and  of  voices.  Cabals,  factions, 
conspiracies  —  when  did  the  city,  palace,  seraglio  lack  in 
those?  They  never  lacked,  so  why  should  they  lack  now? 
None  thought  that  they  lacked. 

Did  Nitetis  truly  conspire  against  Aryenis  and  the 
young  Alyattes?  Almost  certainly  she  did.  The  air  was 
heavy  in  the  seraglio,  with  an  ominous  brooding,  as  of  a 
long-gathering,  great  storm.  The  women  from  north, 
south,  east,  and  west  took  sides;  the  eunuchs,  the  slaves 
took  sides;  the  children,  the  merchants,  the  musicians 
that  were  admitted.  The  palace  murmured,  looked  aslant, 
signed  with  the  fingers. 

Meranes,  having  conquered  on  the  southern  bound 
aries,  approached  the  city  of  his  satrapy. 

All  day  was  triumph,  was  blare  of  music,  shouting  and 
festival :  all  day  and  night. 

The  second  dawn  Meranes  came  in  sight  of  the  city 
and,  running  toward  the  sea,  his  gleaming  palace,  in 
sight,  too,  of  the  column  of  welcome  and  triumph  winding 
forth  to  meet  him.  Meranes's  eyes  shone,  wine-colour 


2i 8  THE   WANDERERS 

glowed  in  his  cheek.  He  stroked  the  beautiful  steed  that 
he  rode.  "Well  is  the  world,  and  I  am  prime  in  it!" 
thought  Meranes. 

The  day  went  in  pomp.  Evening  drew  on,  and  Meranes, 
in  the  round  room  of  the  silver  palms,  a  throng  about  him, 
listened  to  Artaxias,  pressing  close,  hastily  whispering. 
"Meranes,  drive  these  people  back.  Send  for  Cyaxeres 
and  the  Faithful  Guard.  There  is  a  plot.  I  tell  you  the 
bow  is  bent  and  the  arrow  ready  to  sing!" 

Meranes  frowned.  He  looked  at  Sadyattes,  coming 
toward  him,  richly  dressed  and  smiling.  "I  think  that  the 
magus  Artaxias  plots  against  peace  of  mind  and  well 
enough!  —  I  have  never  seen  those  I  rule  more  truly  wel 
coming.  —  Be  still,  for  I  hear  the  nightingale  singing  in 
the  garden!" 

"You  are  going  to  the  seraglio?" 

"Now." 

"Go  not,  Meranes!" 

But  Meranes  thrust  him  from  him  and  beckoned  Sady 
attes. 

"Lord,"  said  Sadyattes,  "even  this  room  fills  with  rich 
perfume  and  song!  The  Pearl  of  the  Deep  awaits  you,  and 
the  Flower  of  Egypt  and  many  a  lesser  gem  and  blossom." 

"See  that  the  palace  is  well  guarded,"  said  Meranes. 
"A  raven  has  been  croaking  —  croaking  — " 

"It  is  guarded  well,"  answered  Sadyattes,  "though 
hardly  does  it  need  guarding!  All  is  at  peace,  Meranes, 
owning  you  lord." 

Meranes  passed  through  the  cedar  doors,  very  thick, 
well-made,  strongly  watched  on  either  side.  Eunuchs  wel 
comed  him,  knees  and  forehead  to  the  ground,  then  bands 
of  fair  women.  ...  All  the  place  was  decorated,  fragrant, 


THE  PEARL  OF  THE  DEEP          219 

musical,  coloured,  warm,  voluptuous.  All  was  for  the 
satrap,  all  was  for  the  warrior  home,  for  the  rich  man,  the 
powerful.  .  .  .  Meranes  made  to  turn  in  that  swimming, 
coloured  mist  towards  the  Room  of  the  Fountain  .  .  .  then 
suddenly  there  seemed  a  straight  road  in  the  world  to  the 
flower  that  sprang  in  Egypt.  He  saw  Nitetis,  standing  be 
tween  pillars,  robed  in  red  gauze,  with  blue-black  hair, 
with  eyes  that  allured  and  lips  that  smiled,  "Come!"  She 
stood  at  a  distance;  when  he  moved  toward  her,  she  moved 
from  him.  He  followed  —  here  was  a  great  room  that  was 
hers,  set  with  moon-like  white  flowers,  the  light  coming 
through  glass  like  jewels.  She  turned,  all  her  form  was  seen 
through  her  red  dress,  she  lifted  her  arms,  touched  her 
hands  together  above  her  eyes,  sank  down  and  kissed  the 
earth  before  Meranes.  .  .  .  And  all  the  many  moving  fig 
ures,  the  eunuchs,  the  slaves,  the  human  gems  and  blos 
soms,  seemed  to  vanish,  fade,  and  sink  away.  Here  was 
only  a  garlanded  room  and  Egypt.  Meranes  made  the  sign 
to  leave  them  alone. 

There  was  an  eunuch,  Bagios,  chief  of  eunuchs,  who  held 
for  Meranes  the  secret  hatred  of  a  slave  for  a  master,  a 
worm  for  a  trampling  foot.  Bagios  looked  to  Sadyattes  for 
freedom  and  wealth  and  the  sweetness  of  revenge.  Bagios 
might  time  much,  arrange  much  in  the  seraglio,  direct 
those  bands  of  welcomers,  appearances,  disappearances, 
give  clear  stage  for  happenings/'.  .  .  He  might  now  go  to 
the  Room  of  the  Fountain  and  speak  of  the  Room  of  the 
White  Flowers. 

Meranes  and  Nitetis  lay  embraced.  "Lord,  lord,"  said 
Nitetis,  "you  might  have  thought,  while  you  were  away, 
that  Aryenis  was  satrap!  See  you  not  how  she  has  stolen 
my  beauty?" 


220  THE  WANDERERS 

Looking  at  her  he  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world.  "Lord,  lord,"  she  said,  "and  know  you  what 
she  said  of  your  son  Smerdis,  in  whom  men  say  they  see 
you  when  you  were  boy?  'The  ugly  wretch!'  she  said. 
'When  Meranes  sleeps  for  good  and  Alyattes  is  satrap,  he 
shall  be  blinded  1'"  —  Nitetis  was  starry-eyed,  Nitetis 
was  sugar-lipped,  Nitetis  bloomed  like  the  rose.  —  "Lord, 
lord,"  said  Nitetis,  "she  thinks  always  of  Alyattes  as  sa 
trap  !  At  heart  she  is  mother-woman,  only  a  little,  a  little 
is  she  wife- woman  1" 

Meranes  pressed  his  lips  against  the  lips  of  Nitetis.  The 
Egyptian  sank  her  head  upon  his  breast,  curved  her  arm 
around  his  neck.  "Lord,  lord,  would  you  have  Smerdis 
humbled  and  blinded  —  Smerdis  that  is  your  image  as 
Alyattes  is  not?  .  .  .  Lord,  lord,  here  is  the  child,  dark 
and  lovely  as  angels  are — " 

Smerdis,  all  richly  dressed,  came  from  among  the  flowers. 
He  carried  a  platter  heaped  with  fruit  —  grape  and  pear 
and  plum  and  nectarine.  He  kneeled  and  placed  these  be 
side  Meranes.  "They  are  for  you,  my  father,  shining  like 
god!" 

The  plants,  the  flowers,  led  off  in  this  direction  and  in 
that,  leaf  walls  hung  with  white  bloom,  and,  between,  nar 
row  paths  with  space  for  subtile  movement.  .  .  .  The 
flames  behind  the  jewelled  lantern  glass  seemed  suddenly 
to  tremble  and  leap.  The  Room  of  the  Fountain  came  into 
the  Room  of  the  White  Flowers. 

Meranes,  yet  in  the  arms  of  Nitetis,  bent  and  caressed 
the  boy  with  the  fruit.  "By  the  fire!  We  are  alike — " 

Nitetis's  body  stiffened.  She  spoke  in  a  rattling  voice. 
"Look  — look!" 

Aryenis  stood  over  them,   her  body,   her  lifted  arm 


THE   PEARL   OF   THE  DEEP          221 

curved.  They  saw  her,  grey  and  purple,  spangled,  with 
eyes  that  glittered,  in  her  hand  a  poniard,  wavy-lined  and 
poisoned,  wrought  to  a  keen  and  piercing  touch.  It  rose 
and  fell  —  rose  and  fell  —  against  the  three  entangled  on 
the  golden  couch.  It  stung  Egypt  first.  She  sank  aside, 
slipped  like  water  from  the  couch  to  the  floor.  "Look  — 
the  serpent!"  she  said,  and  lay  with  her  eyes  upon  her 
own  blood.  The  boy  Smerdis  clung  to  Meranes,  preventing 
him  from  rising  from  the  golden  bed.  The  quick  dagger 
touched  him  next,  and  so  deeply  that  life  passed  out 
almost  at  once.  He  lay  among  the  tumbled  fruit,  rival 
no  longer  to  Alyattes.  —  Meranes,  rising,  seized  Aryenis, 
but  she  twisted  from  him,  and  struck  the  dagger  into  his 
breast.  "May  your  heart  know  my  woe!"  She  drew  out 
the  blade,  let  it  fall  upon  the  floor.  "Meranes  —  Me 
ranes!" 

Meranes  fell  across  the  golden  bed.  .  .  .  The  Room  of  the 
White  Flowers  filled  with  those  lesser  blossoms  and  gems  of 
the  place,  and  with  slaves  and  eunuchs.  They  made  loud 
outcry,  Bagios  leading.  Musk  and  sandal  and  smell  of 
blood,  and  over  the  floor  the  scattered  fruit,  grape  and  pear 
and  plum  and  nectarine,  and  in  the  centre  the  three  fallen 
and  Aryenis.  Then  Alyattes  came  running  into  the  Room 
of  the  White  Flowers  and  to  his  mother.  Aryenis  sat  upon 
the  bed  and  put  her  arms  about  him.  "Child  —  child  — 
child!"  She  hid  her  eyes  against  him.  Nitetis  stirred, 
raised  herself  upon  her  hand  and  looked  around.  The 
dagger  lay  in  the  light. !:  The  Egyptian  put  out  her  hand  and 
took  it,  then,  drawing  herself  up  to  that  mother  and  son, 
struck  Alyattes  with  it  between  the  shoulders.  Aryenis 
lifting  her  eyes,  straining  him  to  her,  saw  the  Egyptian  fall 
and  die.  "Alyattes!  Alyattes!" 


222  THE   WANDERERS 

Above  the  wild  outcry  of  the  place  was  heard  the  entry 
at  the  cedar  doors  of  Sadyattes  and  armed  men.  The  gems 
and  the  blossoms  wildly  scattered,  the  bands  of  eunuchs, 
conspirators  or  dully  innocent,  stood  there,  stood  there, 
Bagios  well  in  front,  dressed  in  red  and  yellow,  with  mad 
action  of  his  arms,  with  explanatory  torrents  of  words. 
Slaves,  wailing  with  reason,  for  they  all  might  be  scourged 
to  death,  brought  fresh  lamps  so  that  there  might  be  more 
light  upon  evil.  Through  the  windows  poured  in  the  night 
air,  and  droves  of  moths  came  to  the  lamps.  When  Sady 
attes  entered  the  Room  of  the  White  Flowers  Aryenis  was 
sitting  upon  the  couch,  her  limbs  beneath  her,  and  in  her 
lap  the  dead  Alyattes. 

"  I  crept  through  and  stung,"  she  said  to  Sadyattes  the 
diver,  "but  the  fire  has  charred  me  black." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   BANKS   OF  JUMUNA 

ZIRA,  clad  in  a  ragged,  brown  dress,  sat  beneath  a  clump 
of  bamboo  growing  by  the  stream  that  ran  past  Gangya's 
house,  and  cleaned  the  copper  cooking-pots.  For  three 
years  Zira  had  been  called  widow.  When  you  are  young 
and  fortunate,  beloved  and  happy,  three  years  is  not  a 
great  space  of  time.  When  you.  are  young  but  unfortunate, 
abused  and  wretched,  it  may  be  long  indeed.  Zira  was 
young  in  years,  but  quite  old  in  misery. 

Her  head  showed  shaven,  the  ragged  shawl  that  covered 
it  being  pushed  back  since  none  was  by  saving  the  monkeys 
in  the  banyan  tree  and  the  lizards  on  the  rock  wall.  She 
was  thin,  for  she  was  never  given  enough  to  eat  and  stead 
ily  overworked.  Upon  her  arms  were  black  bruises,  for  her 
mother-in-law  was  subject  to  hot  rages  and  yesterday  had 
shaken  Zira  until  her  teeth  chattered  in  her  head,  and  the 
blood  stood  still  under  the  griping  fingers.  Across  her 
shoulders  ran  a  weal  from  the  stick  with  which  she  had  been 
struck  because  she  had  broken  an  earthern  lamp.  Zira 
looked,  and  was,  forlorn,  ill-treated^  poorly  lodged  and  fed, 
abused,  struck  with  tongue  and  hand,  a  menial  and  pariah, 
a  widow  in  the  house  of  her  husband's  parents. 

Zira  scoured,  dully,  a  huge  red  copper  pan.  There  were 
many  vessels  to  be  cleaned,  for  Gangya  was  a  rich  man  as 
riches  went  in  the  village  by  the  Jumuna.  The  earth  swam 
in  heat;  it  was  so  hot  that  even  the  monkeys  were  quiet, 
and  the  lizards  themselves  might  seem  less  active.  Zira, 


224  THE  WANDERERS 

drawing  a  sigh,  put  her  head  on  her  arms  and  her  arms  on 
her  knees.  She  must  have  a  little  rest,  no  matter  what  the 
consequences!  A  change  to  looking  on  pleasurable  things 
from  things  so  sadly  unpleasurable  becomes  now  and  then 
a  necessity,  even  to  the  old  in  woe,  Zira  must  have  a  little 
colour  and  fragrance  and  music,  and  went  to  the  only 
place  where  she  knew  she  might  get  them,  and  that  was 
down  the  steps  into  Memory.  The  ache  might  seem  worse 
after  being  there,  but  let  it  seem! 

Madhava's  caste  and  her  caste  had  been  Vaisya,  mer 
chants,  husbandmen.  As  a  child  and  a  girl  she  was  not  with 
out  teaching.  Her  own  mother  strictly  taught  her  many 
things,  though  not,  of  course,  the  high  things;  in  which  the 
priest  instructed  her  father  and  elder  brother.  But  she 
knew,  sitting  by  the  stream,  with  her  head  in  her  arms, 
that  she  had  been  born  many  times  and  would  be  born 
many  times  again.  But  she  was  not  one  of  those  strong 
ones  who  could  stray  at  will  in  Memory.  She  could  go 
down  the  steps  a  little  way,  but  then  there  arose,  as  it 
were,  mist  and  a  roaring  in  the  ears.  She  had  imagina 
tion,  had  it,  indeed,  in  bulk,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her 
particularly  to  connect  imagination  and  her  own  history 
—  not  yet  did  that  occur.  She  made  pictures  with  which 
to  lighten  unhappiness,  but  often  the  pictures  were  bitter, 
and  gave  her  no  entertainment.  .  .  .  But  now,  down  in 
Memory,  she  was  re-living  small  happinesses  of  childhood 
and  girlhood  —  toys  and  adornments  and  days  and  moods 
and  happenings  —  and  then  again,  again,  for  the  ten  thou 
sandth  time  again,  her  marriage  to  Madhava. 

Her  marriage  to  Madhava.  Ah!  ...  Ah!  She  sat  under 
the  bamboo,  under  the  teak  tree,  and  forgot  the  pots  and 
pans,  the  bruises  upon  her  arms  and  how  sore  were  her 


THE  BANKS  OF  JUMUNA  225 

shoulders  —  how  dull  and  slow-beating  and  sore  was  her 
heart!  .  .  .  Village  lights  —  village  lights,  and  the  gongs 
in  the  temple  —  lights  carried  in  procession,  and  flowers 
and  flowers;  spices  and  cakes  and  fruits  burned  in  sacrificial 
fires.  .  .  .  How  she,  Zira,  was  dressed  by  her  mother  and 
sisters  and  the  neighbours,  and  how  she  met  Madhava  and 
they  walked  hand  in  hand.  .  .  .  All  the  rites  —  oblation 
to  Agni  and  prayers  for  long  life,  kind  kindred,  many  chil 
dren,  right  wealth  —  all  the  rites,  and  the  marriage  pledge, 

"  That  heart  of  thine  shall  be  mine,  and  this  heart  of  mine  shall  be  thine" 

How  bright  was  that  day  —  and  the  village  shouting  and 
laughing  —  and  all  so  friendly,  even  the  children  friendly 
—  children  that  now  stoned  her  and  cried  "Widow,  widow! 
Madhava  must  have  died  because  of  you!" 

Oh,  the  marriage,  how  sweet  it  was,  and  the  feasting  and 
the  well-wishing  —  and  now  all  the  sweetness  long  gone 
by,  long,  long  gone  by.  .  .  .  That  was  the  trouble  with 
going  down  into  Memory  —  the  swords  were  so  sharp 
beside  the  flowers! 

Zira  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  two  darting  lizards  be 
side  her,  then  at  a  painted  butterfly  upon  a  red  flower,  then 
up  into  the  boughs  of  the  tree.  A  monkey  there  threw  down 
a  sizable  twig.  It  struck  upon  the  wall  and  sent  the  lizards 
into  crannies.  "Tree-folk,  you  do  not  suffer  like  me!" 
said  Zira. 

"Boom!  —  Boom!"  went  the  temple  gong,  some  sacri 
fice  being  toward.  Zira  threw  herself  upon  the  ground  and 
wept. 

Blurred  and  aching  pictures  still  came  through.  The 
days  after  the  wedding  danced  by  —  then  Madhava,  ill, 
pale,  and  shaking,  then  red  with  fever,  bright-eyed,  talking, 


226  THE   WANDERERS 

talking,  talking!  —  Madhava  lying  upon  the  great  bed  and 
Zira  and  his  mother  and  sisters  nursing  him  —  the  priest 
coming,  gazing,  speaking  —  and  the  hot  still  days  with  the 
rains  beginning  —  and  the  nights  velvet  black  with  the 
clouds  gathering  —  and  all  the  verses  of  the  sacred  writings 
that  they  said  .  .  .  but  Madhava  only  burned  the  more 
with  fever  and  cried  the  more  wildly  —  and  the  mother 
and  sisters  said  to  Zira,  "Unhappy  one!  Do  not  all  peo 
ple  know  that  if  the  husband  dies  it  is  the  wife  who  slays 
him!" 

Zira  dug  her  fingers  into  the  earth.  Memory  now  was 
not  fair  and  warm  and  dear,  no  indeed  it  was  not!  but  it 
held  her  —  it  held  her  —  away  down  the  stair!  It  poured 
over  her  again,  it  made  her  feel  the  hot  days  with  the  rains 
beginning,  the  nights  velvet  black  without  a  star.  It  made 
her  hear  again  the  dogs  that  howled  by  night,  the  sounds 
that  went  stealthily  through  the  village,  the  jungle  mur 
mur  that  the  winds  brought  over  the  fields,  over  the  vil 
lage  wall.  She  heard  again,  mind-brought,  the  cry  of  a 
tiger  a-roam.  Memory  made  her  hear  and  see  and  touch 
Madhava,  talking,  talking,  talking,  and  hard  to  hold  in 
bed,  and  the  nursing  women  so  tired  and  thirsty  for  sleep. 
...  It  brought  her  to  a  grey  day  with  warm,  large  rain 
drops  falling  slowly  —  it  brought  her  to  a  black,  black 
night,  and  Madhava  lying  at  last  quiet,  seeming  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  Madhava  lay  so  still,  seeming  as  though  he  dreamed 
and  were  happy.  Itura,  his  mother,  and  Jadeh,  his  sister, 
stole  away  to  get  a  little  sleep.  Zira  stayed,  heavy-eyed, 
beside  the  bed.  What  happened  then?  She  sat  upon  the 
floor,  her  head  drooped  against  the  foot  of  the  bed;  she 
did  not  mean  to  shut  her  eyes,  or,  if  she  shut  them,  meant 
at  once  to  open.  .  .  .  Zira  drew  a  moaning  sigh,  lying 


THE  BANKS   OF  JUMUNA  227 

upon  the  earth  beneath  the  bamboo  by  the  stream  near 
Gangya's  house,  three  years  and  more  from  that  night. 
What  happened?  Some  demon  entered  surely  to  entice! 
but  if  she  had  not  slept  the  demon  might  not  have  won  in. 
So  it  was  Zira's  fault  —  Zira's  fault  —  Zira's  fault  —  set 
to  guard  her  lord,  her  husband,  and  sleeping,  sleeping  — 
Zira's  fault  —  Zira's  fault.  The  fever  came  back  to  Mad- 
hava.  He  opened  his  eyes,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  he  looked 
around  —  and  there  was  only  the  faithless  wife  sleeping. 
Madhava  put  his  feet  out  of  the  bed;  he  stood  up  —  and 
all  the  little  bells  and  flower  faces  were  calling!  Madhava 
went  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  passage  and  out  of 
the  house  door  —  all  in  the  soft  and  black  and  muffled 
night.  Zira,  in  the  shadow  of  the  teak  tree,  took  up  a 
handful  of  earth  and  strewed  it  over  her  sunken  head. 
O  woe,  woe!  death  for  Madhava,  and  for  Zira  such  long 
woe,  such  long  atonement,  such  long  woe.  .  .  .  Down  in 
Memory,  she  followed  Madhava.  Out  of  the  house,  into 
the  village  street,  and  the  night  so  black  and  wordless 
with  the  rain  at  hand  and  all  householders  within  doors, 
sleeping  with  their  families.  The  street,  the  wall,  the 
gate  made  for  keeping  out  all  jungle  beasts,  but  not 
formed  so  that  a  man  might  not  pass  from  within,  know 
ing  the  opening's  trick — Madhava  went  out  of  the 
gate,  and  Zira  who  had  not  waked  and  followed  that  night, 
waked  and  followed  now.  .  .  .  The  beaten  path  across  the 
black  fields,  and  the  hilly  ground,  and  the  little  ravines, 
and  in  front  the  jungle  growing  higher,  growing  blacker, 
growing  higher,  growing  blacker,  growing  nearer.  .  .  . 
The  jungle  sounds  growing  louder.  .  .  .  Madhava  the  sick 
man,  fevered  and  talking  to  himself,  and  walking  the 
jungle  path  where  no  one  went  at  night,  before  him  the 


228  THE  WANDERERS 

pool  with  the  cane  and  the  fallen  trees,  and  the  bank  where 
the  jungle,  came  to  drink.  .  .  .  Madhava,  talking  to  him 
self,  going  to  the  jungle,  and  there,  by  the  pool,  red-eyed, 
and  waiting,  the  tiger  whose  voice  for  a  week  the  village 
had  heard.  .  .  .  Zira  stumbled  up  the  stair  from  Memory, 
covering  her  eyes  with  her  hands. 

"My  lord  is  gone,  my  head  is  shorn!"  — 

breathed  Zira  under  the  bamboo. 

"Mine  is  death  in  life, 
The  evil  one!" 

She  took  the  greatest  copper  pot,  set  it  between  her 
knees,  and  with  the  rag  that  she  held  rubbed  it  clean.  It 
blazed  in  the  sun,  it  hurt  her  eyes.  A  quarrel  sprang  up 
between  the  monkeys  in  the  teak  tree.  They  chattered  and 
screeched  at  one  another,  they  showered  twigs  and  leaves. 
Zira,  drawing  her  hand  around  and  around  the  copper 
vessel,  saw  with  each  circle  some  one  of  the  hours  that 
followed  Itura's  return  to  the  room,  and  the  missing  of 
Madhava.  Around  —  the  tracking  him  from  the  house  — 
around  —  the  rousing  of  the  village,  the  finding  without 
the  wall  his  naked  footprints  —  around  —  the  following 
at  dawn  upon  the  jungle  path  —  around  —  the  coming  to 
the  pool,  the  track  of  the  tiger  there,  the  end  of  all  signs 
and  of  all  hoping  —  around,  around  —  the  beginning  of 
the  unhappy  life  of  Zira,  a  woman  wedded,  whose  husband 
was  dead! 

The  monkeys  in  the  tree  sulked  after  quarrelling.  The 
lizards  ran  again  over  the  wall,  the  water  went  past  in 
sheets  of  diamonds,  the  brown  earth  swam  in  heat,  boom! 
boom!  sounded  the  temple  gong.  Zira  gathered  together 


THE  BANKS   OF  JUMUNA  229 

all  the  pots  and  pans,  clean  now  until  they  must  be  cleaned 
again.  She  weighted  herself  with  them,  her  thin  shoulders 
bending  under  the  load.  She  drew  the  ragged  veil  over  her 
head,  and  getting  stumblingly  to  her  feet  because  of  her 
burden,  faced  Gangya's  house  that  was  all  her  home. 
"What  stupid  and  wicked  lives  were  mine  before  I  came 
here  —  before  I  came  here?"  asked  Zira,  and  went  on  to 
the  house  and  her  midday  piece  of  sessamum-cake. 

Three  years.  .  .  .  And  all  that  time  Madhava  walked 
the  earth  as  Madhava,  though  not  by  the  banks  of  Jumuna. 
He  walked  in  a  forest  back  from  Ganges,  a  forest  standing 
from  old  time,  a  resort  from  old  time  of  holy  men.  Mad 
hava  gathered  firewood,  dry  branches  from  beneath  the 
trees,  dead  and  broken  scrub.  He  carried  the  fuel  to  the 
hut  of  such  a  man.  When  that  was  done,  he  shouldered  an 
earthern  jar  and  went  for  water  to  a  spring  two  bow-shots 
away.  When  the  water  was  brought,  he  made  cakes  of 
millet  flour  and  baked  them  upon  a  heated  stone.  When 
they  were  baked  he  ranged  them  upon  a  board-,  and  when 
this  was  done  he  went  out  under  the  trees,  looking  for 
Narayana,  the  holy  man.  He  found  him  seated,  entranced, 
under  a  sandal-wood  tree.  Madhava,  stepping  backward, 
returned  to  the  hut  and  seating  himself  by  the  fire  which 
burned  without  doors,  waited  for  the  seer  to  retake  the 
body  and  bring  it  to  the  hut  for  food.  Madhava  was  the 
holy  man's  one  pupil,  his  chela. 

Madhava  looked  through  the  grey  and  green  and  purple 
arches  of  the  forest.  He  looked  at  one  spot,  and  he  said  over 
thrice  verses  that  he  had  been  taught,  and  strove  to  still  the 
waves  of  the  mind  that  ran  here  and  there  in  twenty  dif 
ferent  channels.  Madhava  always  found  it  very  hard  to 
still  the  mind,  though  the  holy  man  told  him  the  method 


230  THE  WANDERERS 

time  and  again.  .  .  .   This  day,  somehow,  the  waves  sank 
of  their  own  accord. 

Madhava,  sitting  there  in  the  forest  back  of  Ganges, 
beside  the  jar  of  water  and  the  millet  cakes,  with  the  blue 
wood  smoke  rising  in  a  feather,  very  quietly  and  suddenly 
remembered  how  he  had  happened  to  enter  the  forest.  He 
had  not  remembered  it  before.  .  .  .  He  had  come  to  the 
forest  from  long  travelling  to  and  fro  in  a  land  of  towns  and 
temples  and  villages  and  roads  with  people  always  upon 
them.  There  he  was  the  servant  of  a  horse-trader,  and 
people  thought  him  out  of  his  head,  and  the  children  gath 
ered  around  him  in  the  villages,  and  he  told  them  stories 
of  the  animals  in  the  forest,  and  especially  of  one  great 
tiger.  The  horse-trader  treated  him  very  cruelly.  He 
suffered.  In  the  night-time  he  wept  for  wretchedness. 
Then  one  day,  going  upon  the  road  that  touched  this  forest, 
his  master  the  horse-trader  began  to  beat  him  mercilessly. 
Madhava  felt  something  terrible  rise  within  him.  He  took 
an  iron  bar  and  killed  the  horse-trader,  and  then  he  ran 
into  the  forest  —  ran  and  ran  and  ran,  until  he  caught  his 
foot  in  the  root  of  a  tree  and  fell,  striking  his  head.  .  .  . 
Madhava,  sitting  by  the  sage's  hut  and  fire,  drew  a  long 
breath.  It  was  clear  how  he  came  into  the  forest. 

The  holy  man  lying  under  the  sandal-wood  tree  came 
back  to  his  body  and  brought  it  to  the  hut  and  the  evening 
meal.  The  blue  feather  of  smoke  went  up,  the  shadows 
stretched  at  immense  length,  the  insect  folk  made  their 
even  song.  The  seer  sat  down  and  took  from  Madhava's 
hands  a  cup  of  water  and  a  millet  cake. 

"Master,"  said  Madhava,  "I  have  remembered  how 
I  came  into  the  forest." 

"It  was  written  that  that  would  come  to  pass." 


THE  BANKS  OF  JUMUNA  231 

"I  was  with  my  master,  a  horse-trader,  who  treated  me 
cruelly.  One  day  he  beat  and  cursed  me.  Something  terri 
ble  rose  within  me  and  I  took  an  iron  bar  and  killed  him. 
Then  I  ran  into  the  forest  and  ran  and  ran  until  I  caught 
my  foot  in  a  root  and  fell  upon  my  head  — " 

"That  was  a  year  ago,"  said  Narayana.  "I  found  you 
lying  without  sense.  I  carried  you  here  and  nursed  you 
well.  But  you  could  not  remember  until  now  how  you 
came  into  the  forest." 

"That  was  how  I  came,"  said  Madhava. 

"It  is  well  that  that  veil  has  been  taken  away.  Now  will 
you  learn  with  greater  strength." 

"Can  a  man  learn  truth  who  is  servant  to  horse-traders, 
and  a  murderer?" 

"The  soul  does  not  know  poverty,  does  not  murder,  is 
not  man  nor  woman,  Brahmin  nor  Sudra." 

Madhava  stayed  in  the  forest,  brought  firewood  and 
water,  and  was  taught  by  Narayana.  Another  year  went 
by.  There  came  a  day  when  Madhava  sat  beneath  a  tree, 
pondering  the  universe.  Suddenly  he  remembered  how 
he  came  into  the  great  river  plain,  and  to  be  the  servant  of 
the  horse-trader.  .  .  .  Again  he  drew  himself  from  a  pool 
of  water,  at  the  edge  of  the  jungle.  It  was  black  night, 
with  large,  warm  raindrops  falling;  there  was  a  great  beast 
coming  out  of  the  brush  —  a  tiger  surely.  Madhava  had 
gone  to  meet  it  —  surely  he  was  drunken  or  in  a  fever!  The 
beast  knew  that  there  was  something  strange  —  turning 
aside,  he  had  gone  padding  away.  Madhava  went  on, 
walking  very  surely  through  the  jungle.  He  went  fast,  with 
great  strides,  went  through  the  night  and  into  the  day. 
Madhava,  seated  beneath  the  tree,  remembered  that  go 
ing,  remembered  lying  down  and  sleeping,  rising  and  going 


232  THE   WANDERERS 

on  again  —  and  then  days  and  nights  of  sleeping  and  wan 
dering,  eating  fruits  and  nuts,  struggling  with,  outwitting, 
or  companioning  jungle  inhabitants,  being  as  a  wild  man. 
He  remembered,  after  many  days  of  this,  striking  out  of 
the  jungle  into  a  cultivated  country.  He  remembered  a 
road  and  travellers  along  it.  ...  Men  came  by  with  horses 
—  a  man  stood  and  talked  to  him.  .  .  .  That  was  the 
horse-trader. 

Madhava  told  Narayana  that  evening.  "I  have  re 
membered  how  I  came  into  this  country,  and  to  be  the 
servant  of  the  horse-trader." 

"One  day,"  said  Narayana,  "you  will  remember  all  that 
is  beyond  north  and  south  and  east  and  west." 

"I  seem  to  have  been  a  man  ill  or  mad  or  drunken." 

"That  was  one  of  thy  little  selves.  The  soul  is  not  ill  nor 
mad  nor  drunken." 

Madhava  stayed  in  the  forest,  brought  firewood  and 
water,  and  was  taught  by  Narayana.  Another  year  went 
by. 

Five  years.  .  .  .  The  village  upon  the  Jumuna  had  bound 
into  the  great  sheaf  of  village  tales  the  story  of  the  bride 
groom  who  fell  ill  and  strayed  from  his  house  in  the  black 
night,  and  by  the  pool  at  the  edge  of  the  jungle  was  taken 
by  the  great  old  tiger.  It  was  put  upon  the  legend  shelf,  for 
telling  by  old  to  young,  for  no  one  knew  how  long.  It  was 
become  simply  a  story  among  stories.  Wet  season,  dry 
season,  seed  time  and  harvest,  the  village  went  about  its 
usual  business.  .  .  .  Zira  looked  and  felt  an  old  woman. 
When  she  was  regarded  at  all  it  was  as  a  drudge  who  was 
justly  paying.  Women  were  not  widowed  unless  they  had 
sinned.  .  .  .  Gangya  and  Itura,  their  sons  and  daughters, 
ill-treated  her  because  it  was  Retribution,  and  as  the 


THE  BANKS  OF  JUMUNA  233 

Eternal  Order  of  Things  would  have  it.  But  now,  long 
since,  grief  for  Madhava  had  lost  edge.  No  longer,  as  at 
first,  did  they  load  Zira  with  accusations,  gross  terms  of 
blame.  No  longer  did  they  make  daily  reference  to  her  evil 
nature.  They  only  put  upon  her  heavy  drudgery,  absti 
nence  from  much  food  or  sleep  and  from  all  pleasure. 
Bowed  and  silent,  Zira  worked  her  fingers  to  the  bone. 

Five  years.  .  .  .  Zira  washed  clothes  in  the  stream  near 
the  teak  tree.  Upon  the  opposite  bank  a  child  was  playing 
with  sticks  and  stones.  It  was  a  little  child  and  sweet.  It 
laughed  to  itself,  building  a  hut  to  shelter  a  stone.  Zira 
sat  back  upon  her  heels  and  watched  the  child.  Something 
yearned  within  her,  yearned  and  yearned,  then  mounted. 

The  child  looked  across  to  the  woman  for  applause. 
"Pretty!  Pretty!"  called  Zira.  She  had  with  her  a  cluster 
of  fruit.  She  tossed  this  across  to  the  child  who  caught  it 
and  laughed  and  danced  about.  "Something  else!  some 
thing  else!"  cried  the  child.  Zira  had  a  piece  of  bread  that 
with  the  fruit  was  to  have  made  her  dinner.  She  threw 
this  across  also.  The  child  caught  it  and  ran  away,  looking 
back  and  laughing. 

Zira,  washing  clothes  with  eyes  that  dazzled  for  weari 
ness,  with  an  aching  and  hungry  body,  felt  within  her 
being,  away  from  the  ache  and  glare,  away  from  Gangya's 
house,  away  from  Zira  washing  clothes,  the  rise  of  some 
thing  from  level  to  level,  power  and  faculty  changing 
form.  .  .  . 

In  the  forest,  Madhava  brought  to  Narayana's  hut  fire 
wood  and  water.  He  built  the  dawn  fire,  laying  the  sticks 
and  the  tinder,  striking  the  flint  and  steel.  All  over  the 
world  was  a  mist,  with  a  moist  smell  of  earth  and  leaves. 
The  mist  began  to  part,  showing  ragged  depths.  Madhava 


234  THE   WANDERERS 

stood  up  from  the  flame  he  had  kindled.  It  crackled  and 
sang,  it  made  his  garment  shine,  and  his  outstretched  arm. 
Madhava  remembered  that  he  was  Madhava,  the  son  of 
Gangya,  the  husband  of  Zira.  He  remembered  his  child 
hood,  his  youth  and  manhood,  in  the  village  by  the  Ju- 
muna.  All  that  came  back  to  him  as  though  it  were 
yesterday.  Before  him  formed  the  face  of  Zira.  .  .  . 

Narayana  sat  in  contemplation  under  the  sandal-wood. 
When  the  spirit  returned,  said  Madhava  to  him,  "  Master, 
I  fully  remember  this  life.  I  am  Madhava,  son  of  Gangya, 
who  lives  in  a  village  by  the  Jumuna.  I  was  the  bridegroom 
of  Zira,  but  hardly  were  we  married  before  I  fell  ill.  In 
fever,  I  must  have  wandered  from  home.  It  all  comes  back 
to  me.  .  .  .  Many  to  whom  I  am  debtor  think  that  I  am 
dead.  I  must  return  to  them." 

"Ropes  unbroken,"  said  Narayana,  "will  bind  and  draw 
as  is  their  nature  to.  You  may  not  miss  out  your  years  as 
a  householder.  Go  then,  son,  but  put  in  a  safe  treasure 
room  what  you  have  learned." 

"I  do  not  go,"  said  Madhava,  "until  comes  one  to  take 
my  place." 

In  three  months'  time  there  came  a  youth  to  take  Mad- 
hava's  place.  On  the  other  side  of  the  forest  had  lived  a 
holy  man  who  now  laid  down  the  body.  The  student  who 
served  him  came,  as  the  sage  had  directed,  to  attach  him 
self  to  Narayana.  "Now  go ! "  said  Narayana  to  Madhava. 
"As  long  as  the  ropes  are  there,  answer  to  their  drawing. 
But  remember  that  there  is  a  fire  that  you  must  feed  with 
yourself." 

"I  mean  to  remember,"  said  Madhava. 

Madhava  cut  himself  a  staff  and  took  a  bottle  for  water, 
and  said  farewell  to  Narayana  and  to  the  chela  from  the 


THE   BANKS   OF  JUMUNA  235 

other  side  of  the  forest,  and  became  a  traveller.  As  he  went 
through  the  land  he  worked  for  food,  and  now  he  slept 
under  some  friendly  roof,  and  now  he  slept  by  the  road 
side. 

He  had  been  given  three  years  of  clean  living  and  of  wis 
dom  words,  and  that  is  enough  to  set  the  stalk  to  dreaming 
of  flowers  and  fruit.  .  .  . 

Nearly  six  years!  Zira,  drawing  water  from  the  stream, 
set  down  the  jar,  straightened  her  aching  back,  and  shaded 
her  eyes  with  her  hand.  There  was  a  man  standing  under 
the  teak  tree.  He  seemed  travel-worn,  but  a  well-looking 
man  for  all  that. 

Zira  made  to  lift  the  jar  to  her  shoulder  and  go  away. 
The  man  spoke.  "Are  the  people  friendly  in  this  village?" 

"That  is  as  it  is  looked  at,"  said  Zira.  "To  many  they 
are  friendly." 

The  man  came  nearer.  "Whose  house  is  that  among  the 
trees?" 

"Gangya's." 

"Are  Gangya  and  Itura  living,  and  their  sons  and  daugh 
ters?" 

"You  have  been  in  the  village  before?  —  Gangya  and 
Itura  are  living,  and  their  daughters  and  all  their  sons 
save  one." 

"Which  one  is  that?" 

"Madhava." 

"I  remember  him.  —  How  did  he  die  and  when?" 

"He  had  a  fever.  In  the  night  time  he  rose  from  his  bed 
and  left  the  house  and  the  village.  He  walked  upon  the 
jungle  path  —  into  the  jungle  —  to  the  jungle  pool.  It 
was  night,  and  there  was  a  tiger  hunting.  .  .  .  Madhava 
died  nearly  six  years  ago." 


236  THE   WANDERERS 

"Madhava!  —  I  heard  that  he  was  to  be  married." 

"He  was  married." 

"They  said  the  woman  was  beautiful.  Her  name  was 
Zira." 

"Yes.  Zira." 

"Is  she  living?" 

"Yes,  she  is  living." 

"She  was  very  beautiful.  .  .  .  All  these  years  she  has 
been  named  a  widow." 

"All  these  years  she  has  been  widow,"  said  Zira.  "She 
may  live  yet  many  years." 

"A  widow  has  a  miserable  life,"  said  the  man.  "Is  she 
yet  beautiful?" 

"No." 

"Ah,"  said  the  man.  Zira  gazed  at  him,  then  again  she 
turned  to  lift  the  water  jar,  then  let  it  be.  She  went  nearer 
to  the  man.  She  gazed  again.  "Who  are  you?" 

"Whom  am  I  like?" 

"You  are  like  Madhava." 

Zira's  voice  came  only  from  her  lips.  She  loosed  the 
fastening  of  her  shawl  that  covered  her  head  and  shadowed 
her  face.  It  fell.  She  stood  against  the  rock  wall.  "I  am 
Zira.  Are  you  Madhava?" 

Madhava  buried  his  face  in  his  arms.  "The  tiger  should 
not  have  fled  from  me  that  night,  nor  I  have  wandered 
on—" 

"You  are  Madhava  .  .  .  Madhava!" 

Her  voice  deepened,  then  rose  in  a  loud  and  bitter  cry, 
"Madhava!" 

Madhava  dropped  his  hands  from  his  face.  He  rose  and 
came  to  her.  They  stood  by  the  running  water.  "Thou  art 
not  fair  as  thou  wert.  .  .  .  Or  art  thou  fairer?  .  .  .  We 


THE  BANKS   OF  JUMUNA  237 

have  suffered  —  we  have  learned.  .  .  ,  When  all  is  said, 
thou  art  deep  in  me!" 

"When  all  is  said,  thou  art  deep  in  me!" 

"It  was  broken  —  the  beautiful  tree!  But  now  it  grows 
again." 

"It  grows  again!" 

From  Gangya's  house  came  a  calling.  "Zira  —  Zira!" 
Zira  turned,  and  Madhava  with  her.  Hand  in  hand  they 
went  to  Gangya's  house. 


CHAPTER  XII 

VALERIAN   AND    VALERIA 

THE  emperor,  acting  in  his  capacity  as  Pontifex  Maxi- 
mus,  had  confirmed  as  virgin  priestess  of  Vesta,  Flavia,  a 
child  of  ten,  daughter  of  Valerian  and  Valeria.  To  cele 
brate  the  event  Valerian  gave  the  people  games.  Held  in 
the  new  Amphitheatre,  the  spectacle  drew  all  Rome.  The 
emperor  honoured  the  donor  by  his  presence.  Gladiators 
contended,  after  strange  fashions,  with  beasts  of  the  wood 
and  the  plain  and  with  one  another.  Valerian,  a  successful 
general,  lately  returned  from  the  west,  had  brought  pris 
oners,  great  flaxen-headed  men,  who  now  fought,  divided 
into  two  bands,  kin  against  kin,  with  freedom  the  prize  for 
the  surviving. 

The  Amphitheatre  was  huge,  one  oval,  hollow  wave  of 
men  and  women.  The  people  came  early,  struggling  for 
good  seats,  desirous  of  being  on  hand  for  every  important 
entrance,  —  the  emperor,  the  senators,  the  prefect  of  the 
city,  the  vestals,  the  donors  of  the  games,  the  famed,  the 
rich,  the  knowing.  Down  streamed  the  sun,  hot  and  bare 
upon  the  arena,  broken  elsewhere  by  awnings  of  rose  and 
blue.  Flowers  withered  in  garlands,  perfumes  were  burn 
ing  in  silver  braziers.  A  sea  of  sound  steadfastly  beat  against 
the  ear,  a  vast  blend  of  voices,  male  and  female,  of  every 
quality.  Figiles  kept  order.  In  the  arena,  in  the  sloping 
passways  between  the  divisions  of  the  benches,  jugglers  and 
buffoons  and  pantomimists  kept  the  many  amused  until 
there  should  arrive  the  glittering  few.  Fruit  and  a  kind  of 


VALERIAN   AND   VALERIA  239 

comfit  were  carried  about  and  distributed.    The  people 
acclaimed  Valerian  the  Generous. 

The  freedwoman  Lais  picked  a  great  bunch  of  grapes  for 
herself,  and  another  for  her  daughter  Iras,  a  child  a  year  or 
so  older  than  the  little  new  vestal.  "Valeria  has  a  marble 
chair  while  I  have  a  stone  bench,"  quoth  Lais.  "But  she 
can  eat  no  better  grapes  than  these!  Moreover,  she  has 
kissed  her  girl  for  the  last  time  to-day,  while  I  can  kiss 
mine  any  day!  Still  the  gods  keep  planting  thistles  with 
roses!" 

"Mother,  mother!"  whispered  Iras.  "Is  it  over  there 
that  father  will  sit?" 

"Hush,  and  eat  your  grapes!"  answered  Lais. 

The  oceanic  voice  of  the  place  deepened  to  a  roar.  The 
great  were  coming.  The  buffoons,  jugglers,  pantomimists, 
passers  to  and  fro  stood  still.  Up  and  down  the  dizzy 
slopes  the  mass  scrambled  to  its  feet.  "Hail,  Caesar!  Hail, 
Cesar!" 

With  pomp  came  the  emperor,  praetorians,  and  civic 
officers;  with  pomp  came  the  six  vestals,  the  virgo  vestalis 
maxima  and  her  five  sister  priestesses,  splendidly  attended. 
The  six  were  robed  in  white,  stola  and  pallium,  their  hair 
bound  with  ribands  of  white  wool.  They  took  the  seats 
of  the  vestals,  over  against  the  emperor.  With  them,  to 
day,  came  the  newly  chosen  young  vestal,  the  child  of  ten, 
daughter  of  Valerian  and  Valeria.  She  was  dressed  like  the 
older  priestesses,  but  her  hair  had  been  cut  upon  her  taking 
the  vows.  She  had  an  especial  place;  she  sat  stiffly,  in  view 
of  all,  a  little  figure  all  in  white,  with  folded  hands.  Her 
vows  were  for  thirty  years.  For  ten  of  these  she  would  be 
trained  in  the  service  of  Vesta,  for  ten  she  would  watch 
the  sacred  fire,  bring  the  sacred  water,  offer  the  sacrifices 


24o  THE   WANDERERS 

of  salt  cakes,  the  libations  of  wine  and  oil,  pray  for  the 
Roman  State,  guard  the  Palladium;  for  ten  she  would 
teach  the  youthful  vestals.  She  would  have  enormous 
honour,  great  privileges. 

The  freedwoman  and  her  daughter,  leaning  forward  in 
their  places,  whispering  each  to  the  other,  watched  the 
child  in  white.  "See  the  people  look  at  her!  Are  the  games 
for  Flavia?"  asked  the  child  Iras,  and  she  spoke  with  a 
child's  jealousy. 

"Eat  thy  grapes,  my  poor  babe!  Thou  wilt  not  have  a 
great  house  and  riches  and  honour  like  the  vestals!"  Lais 
gave  her  rich,  chuckling  laugh.  "Neither,  if  thou  lettest 
the  fire  go  out  at  home,  shalt  thou  be  cruelly  scourged! 
Nor,  when  thou  art  older,  if  thou  slippest  once  —  just  once 
—  just  one  little  time  —  shalt  thou  be  buried  alive !" 

The  little,  new  vestal  sat  still,  with  her  hands  crossed 
before  her.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  they  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  The  attendants  having  her  in  charge  whispered  to 
her  hastily.  She  must  not  weep!  "Then  turn  me  so  that 
I  cannot  see  my  mother." 

Valerian  with  Valeria  his  wife  had  bowed  before  the 
emperor.  Now  they  sat  quietly,  with  a  studied  lack  of 
state,  as  was  fitting,  about  them  friends  of  the  soberer 
sort.  Valerian  talked  with  the  Stoic  Paulinus.  Valeria  sat 
still  as  a  figure  of  ivory  and  gold,  her  long-fingered  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  upon  the  garlanded  place  of  the 
vestals,  upon  the  little  figure  sitting  so  stiffly.  .  .  .  Down 
in  the  arena  they  were  making  ready,  and  in  the  mean 
time  five  hundred  dancing  fauns  and  nymphs  gave  enter 
tainment. 

Not  till  there  began  the  struggle  between  man  and  beast 
and  man  and  man  would  tense  interest  stop  the  voice  of  the 


VALERIAN  AND  VALERIA  241 

host.  Up  and  down  the  soundj  was  as  of  the  sea,  or  of  a 
high  wind  in  those  endless  barbarian  forests  on  the  edge  of 
empire  where  Valerian  had  been.  sBehind  the  freedwoman 
and  her  child  crowded  market  men  and  women,  provin 
cials  of  low  estate,  half  a  dozen  soldiers.  Of  these  last  it  ap 
peared  that  Valerian  had  been  general.  Their  general  fig 
ured  in  their  talk,  and  they  did  not  scant  their  praise.  They 
called  him  brave  and  wary,  good  father  to  his  cohorts.  A 
provincial  asked  about  the  children  of  his  body.  Lais 
turned  a  little  toward  the  speakers.  —  "All  but  this  one 
died.  He  adopted  a  son  so  that  his  name  should  last  — 
see,  the  young  man  standing  up!  But  he  has  no  own  chil 
dren  save  the  little  vestal." 

Lais,  with  a  jerk  of  her  head,  went  back  to  eating  grapes 
and  contemplating  the  fauns  and  nymphs. 

"No  lawful  children,  you  mean?"  said  the  provincial. 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  soldier:  "owned  children. 
There  are  owned  children  and  there  are  unowned  chil 
dren.  —  Ha!  Watch  them  leap  and  dance!" 

Lais  ate  the  purple  grapes,  spitting  out  the  seeds. 
Iras,  leaning  forward,  watched  the  wreathing  fauns  and 
nymphs.  "Mother,  mother!  When  I  am  grown  I  will  be 
a  dancer!" 

"Who  is  the  old  man  talking  to  the  general?" 

"Paulinus  the  Stoic.  —  Once  Valerian  thought  no  more 
of  his  soul  than  another — " 

"Ha!  We  begin!" 

The  five  hundred  dancing  nymphs  and  fauns  swirled 
from  the  arena  like  wind-blown  coloured  leaves  and  petals. 
A  grating  slid  back,  there  came  forth  a  hollow  roar.  Forth 
upon  the  sand  walked  a  lion  from  Africa,  a  king  among 
lions.  Another  gate  opened;  there  stepped  forth,  naked,  a 


242  THE   WANDERERS 

yellow-headed  giant.    The  games  began.  .  .  .  Presently 
there  were  many  beasts  and  many  men. 

Valeria  sat  with  her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  for  a  long 
time  had  no  thought  save  for  the  child  that  was  going  from 
her.  Her  will  had  bowed  to  that  going.  It  was  a  great  and 
honourable  destiny,  and  many  competed  for  the  nomina 
tion  for  their  daughters.  Flavia  did  not  pass  from  life. 
She,  Valeria,  would  hear  of  her,  see  her,  might  visit  her  in 
the  great,  rich  House  of  the  Vestals.  But  the  mother  grieved 
that  she  would  not  see  her  every  day,  would  no  more  lie 
beside  her  nor  bear  her  in  her  arms.  She  was  so  sunken  in 
the  thought  of  the  little  one  that  she  gave  scant  attention 
to  the  place  in  which  she  was,  to  the  sloping  wilderness 
where  men  and  women  took  the  place  of  trees,  and  down 
below,  as  in  a  vast  pit,  men  fought  with  and  like  the  beasts 
of  the  wood.  Upon  the  slopes  held  breathlessness,  a  lean 
ing  forward  and  down  as  though  bent  by  a  wind.  Down  in 
the  arena  held  heavy  breathing,  straining,  bestial  sounds  of 
struggle,  shouts,  groans,  cries  of  triumph  and  despair.  .  .  . 
Flavia  stepped  aside  in  her  mind.  Out  of  mind  went  the 
other  vestals,  the  emperor,  all  the  great,  and  the  massed 
people;  aside  stepped  also  Valerian.  She  had  been  to  the 
games  before,  but  she  had  not  before  felt  woe  and  sadness 
like  this.  Her  soul  plunged  into  black  depths,  then  rose. 
For  the  first  time  she  hated  the  games;  she  found  them 
smeared  with  guilt.  It  seemed  to  her  that  veils  parted;  she 
caught  wider  glimpses  of  life  and  its  ways.  How  long  she 
had  lived,  and  how  bent  and  crooked,  here  starved  and 
here  swollen,  was  living!  These  hateful  games  —  Caesar's 
empurpled  face  —  the  multitude  craving  and  lusting  for 
the  red,  the  loud,  the  suffering  of  another.  .  .  .  She  felt  for 
all  a  sick  distaste.  She  wished  to  rise  and  go  away,  Flavia 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  243 

in  her  arms  and  beside  her  Valerian.  .  .  .  She  went  farther. 
Faint  as  first  dawn  in  an  old  deep  forest  she  experienced  a 
sense  of  oneness  with  all  within  the  range  of  perception,  with 
the  breathless  tiers,  with  the  panting,  the  groaning  arena. 
Very  faintly,  she  would  have  had  all  rise  and  go  away,  very 
faintly  the  whole  rose  and  moved  with  her.  But  it  was 
only  like  a  breath  of  dawn;  in  a  moment  she  thought  again 
only  of  Flavia  and  Valerian.  But  it  had  been,  and  might  be 
again.  Down  in  the  pit  a  man,  struggling  with  a  brute, 
gave  a  short  cry  of  agony.  A  man  and  a  woman,  near  her, 
leaning  from  marble  seats,  showed  gloating  faces,  drew  in 
their  breath  with  a  sound  of  delight.  She  felt  again  the 
wave  of  pain,  resistance,  the  effort  to  lift  and  remove,  the 
straining  as  against  grave-clothes. 

The  day,  short  to  the  most  but  long  and  long  to  many, 
drew  to  an  end.  The  huge  spectacle  given  by  Valerian 
closed  with  a  final  clanging  feat,  red  colour  and  uproar. 
Forth  went  the  emperor,  forth  the  vestals,  forth  the  pre 
fect,  senators,  knights,  the  praetorians,  the  huge  people. 
The  Amphitheatre  emptied  by  many  ways,  but  without, 
in  the  columned  space  that  fronted  it,  all  orders  blended. 
Patrician  and  plebeian  pressed  each  against  the  other.  In 
the  seething  colour  and  sound,  Valerian  and  Valeria,  with 
them  many  friends,  came  against  a  great  knot  and  con 
course  of  market-people.  At  cross-directions  there  oc 
curred  a  momentary  halting.  The  folk,  recognizing  Vale 
rian,  shouted  his  name.  He,  as  donor  of  the  show,  must 
continue  to  exhibit  good-will.  What  he  showed  he  felt. 
He  had  been  long  in  savage  forests;  returning,  he  felt 
Rome  and  the  Romans  warm  about  his  heart.  He  greeted 
the  folk  as  they  greeted  him,  laughter  and  good  words 
passed  between  them.  Then  Lais,  the  freedwoman,  the 


244  THE  WANDERERS 

flower-seller,  pushed  herself,  or  was  pushed,  toward  the 
front.  She  had  in  her  hand  Iras  her  daughter.  Together 
they  came  as  fully  as  might  be  before  Valerian  and  Valeria. 
Now  Iras  was  a  beautiful  child.  Valerian  looked  on  Lais 
whom  he  remembered,  but  Valeria  looked  at  Iras.  "Hail, 
General!"  chanted  the  flower-seller,  and  with  deliberation 
pushed  before  her  the  child.  "Hail,  General!  Did  you  see 
any  fairer,  out  there  among  barbarians?" 

If  Valerian  had  or  had  not  did  not  appear,  for  now 
others  came  between.  In  especial  young  men  came, 
roisterers  from  the  Palatine.  These  pushed  against  the 
market-folk,  and  one,  curled  and  garlanded,  threw  his 
arms  around  Lais,  who  yet  possessed  beauty.  When  she 
released  herself,  Valerian  and  Valeria  and  their  following 
had  passed  by. 

That  night  was  feasting  in  Valerian's  house  in  Rome. 
The  next  day  was  business  in  Caesar's  house  and  elsewhere. 
The  third  day  he  went  with  Valeria  to  his  country  house  in 
the  Alban  Hills. 

At  sunset  the  two  paced  the  terrace,  all  the  air  sweet 
with  flowers,  spread  beneath  them  the  wide,  darkling  plain. 
They  had  not  been  alone  together  since  the  day  of  the 
games.  Now  they  walked  up  and  down  in  silence,  husband 
and  wife,  in  much  understanding  each  the  other,  yet  in 
much  each  to  the  other  barbarian,  loving  much,  yet  at  not 
a  few  points  drawn  widely  apart.  Outwardly,  they  were 
at  rich,  first  prime,  and  both  of  them  fair  to  the  eye. 

The  west  was  crimson,  their  vineyards  and  olive  trees 
caught  the  last  bright  light,  white  doves  fluttered  about  a 
dovecote  and  walked  the  terrace  with  them. 

Valerian  drew  deep  breath.  "How  sweet  it  is  to  be  at 
home!  .  .  .  Who  first  thought  of  home  deserves  well!" 


VALERIAN  AND   VALERIA  245 

"It  is  sweet.  .  .  .  Valerian,  the  captives,  the  miserable 
in  the  arena  the  other  day!  A  kind  of  captivity  and  misery 
to  be  the  watchers  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  felt  that  ?  I  have  felt  it  too.  But  not  one  man 
nor  many  men  can  change  the  world.  ...  A  man  would 
be  torn  to  pieces  who  said  to  the  people,  'The  games  are 
done  with,  things  of  the  past!" 

"Yes.  ...  Ill  customs  perhaps  ignorantly  begun,  and 
we  go  on  because  we  have  gone  on  so  long.  .  .  .  Yet  are  we 
never  to  end  ill,  begin  better?" 

"In  the  long,  long  run,  perhaps,  yes.  ...  I  suppose  we 
all  sleep,  or  are  poisoned.  .  .  .  However,  I  said  to  myself, 
there  in  the  Amphitheatre,  '  When  needs  must,  I  will  go  to 
these  games,  but  not  for  pleasure.  But  not  again,  though 
I  become  thrice  as  rich  as  I  am,  shall  I  furnish  them!'" 

"I  am  glad  of  that.  —  See  Flavia's  grey  dove  in  the  al 
mond  tree!" 

They  watched  the  dove.  It  rose,  showed  dark  against 
the  carmine  sky,  then  passed  into  the  black  depths  of  a 
cypress. 

"Cease  now  to  mourn  for  Flavia,"  said  Valerian.  "She 
will  be  happy." 

"Perhaps.  .  .  .  Men  love  children,  I  know,  but  hardly 
as  women  love  them." 

"Nature  allows  that.  But  a  man  may  do  wisely  by  his 
children." 

"Oh,  ofttimes!  —  and  ofttimes  unwisely!  But  whatever 
and  however  he  does  they  lie  in  his  hand.  Utterly,  utterly 
they  lie  in  his  hand!  He  makes  all  the  laws  for  them.  He 
puts  them  to  death  when  he  wills.  O  earth!  The  mother  is 
in  his  hand  and  the  child  is  in  his  hand,  and  we  bow  our 
heads  and  worship  where  he  bids  I" 


246  THE   WANDERERS 

"What  ails  thee,  Valeria?  Do  not  I,  Valerian,  love  thee 
and  love  Flavia?" 

"Yes,  Valerian,  yes!" 

"Then—" 

"There  is  much  cause  for  wonder  in  this  world.  .  .  .  How 
did  it  ever  come  that  men  made  men  fight  with  beasts  upon 
the  sands  of  an  arena  for  show?  How  did  it  ever  come  that 
men  have  over  women  the  whole  power  of  law  and  the 
state?  Oh,  I  answer  myself  1  It  came  in  many  ways,  here 
a  little  and  there  a  little  — " 

"Nature  and  the  gods  — " 

"Valerian,  do  you  believe  that?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  it." 

"It  flatters  your  pride  to  believe  it,  and  so  you  believe! 
.  .  .  But  I  say,  too,  that  women  must  have  erred  and 
erred.  .  .  .  Both  you  and  I  stray  in  a  vast  wood!" 

"Rome  and  the  parting  with  the  child  have  fevered  you. 
.  .  .  But  you  were  always  subtle  and  thinking,  thinking  —  " 

"Look  how  the  light  sprinkles  the  plain!  —  Here  is 
Faustus." 

A  grey-headed  man  leaning  upon  a  staff  came  to  meet 
them.  It  was  Faustus  the  philosopher  to  whom  Valerian 
gave  house-room. 

"Hail,  Valerian  and  Valeria!  Good  is  the  city,  but  good 
indeed  is  the  country!  How  beautiful  are  the  olive  trees 
and  the  sea  of  gold!" 

They  paced  the  terrace  up  and  down,  by  the  marble 
statues  and  the  flowering  trees.  "  Faustus,  I  have  read  that 
Zeno  said,  'All  men  are  by  nature  equal.  In  degree  of 
virtue  alone  are  they  different.' " 

"He  said  so,  Valeria.  And  so  do  all  Stoics,  his  fol 
lowers." 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  247 

"And  slaves  and  captives  and  strangers — " 
"They  also.   Underneath  and  above  they  are  one  with 
the  master  and  the  victor  and  the  Roman." 
"And  women  —  and  women,  Faustus?" 
Faustus  leaned  upon  his  staff.   "They  also,  Valeria." 
Valerian  made  a  movement  of  impatience.  "O  Faustus, 
where  is  that  last  said?" 
"It  follows,  Valerian." 

"It  is  theory!  It  has  never  been,  nor  will  it  ever  be.  As 
we  cannot  free  the  slaves,  so  women  cannot  walk  equal 
with  men.    But  goodness  to  slaves,  goodness  and  love  to 
women  I  grant!" 
Faustus  was  silent. 

Said  Valeria,  "That  is  much  to  grant,  but  not  enough." 
They  were  standing  beneath  a  high-raised  marble  fig 
ure  of  Ceres.  Valerian  struck  with  his  hand  the  base  of  the 
statue.  His  brow  darkened.  "O,  Valeria,  you  and  I  have 
struggled  together  before  now  —  struggled  long,  struggled 
hard!  Now  we  are  at  peace.  I  value  peace.  Let  us  stay 
there!" 

"You  make  a  slavery  and  call  it  peace!" 
He  stamped  with  his  foot.  "Let  it  be!  Let  it  be!" 
The  wife  raised  her  arms  to  the  skies,  then  let  them 
drop.  She  could  sing  most  sweetly.  Now,  suddenly,  she 
broke  into  song,  a  wild  folk-carol  of  sun  and  earth  and  gods 
and  daemons.  She  sang  a  charmed  silence  upon  the  ter 
race  and  the  garden  below.  Tree,  vine,  and  flower,  bird 
upon  the  bough,  light  in  the  west,  seemed  to  dream,  listen 
ing.  Faustus  sat  upon  a  bench,  his  hands  crossed  over  his 
staff,  his  eyes  upon  the  brightening  evening  star.  Valerian 
sighed.  He  leaned  against  the  wall  and  shadowed  his 
face  with  his  hand,  and  the  inward  light  beat  against  the 


248  THE   WANDERERS 

inward  eye,  but  the  eye  was  not  yet  strengthened  enough 
to  receive  it  strongly.  The  woman  ceased  to  sing,  the  dusk 
thickened,  the  dank  and  chill  of  the  evening  were  felt,  they 
went  into  the  house.  -.' 

Later,  in  the  great  chamber,  the  house  master  and  mis 
tress  being  alone  for  the  night,  Valeria  standing  trimming 
the  lamp  that  burned,  fed  by  perfumed  oil,  before  the  little 
figures  of  the  household  deities,  said  suddenly,  "She  was 
your  child  —  that  lovely  brown-haired  one  a  woman  thrust 
before  us,  leaving  the  Amphitheatre.  She  was  so  like  you! 
—  more  like  than  is  Flavia." 

Valerian  came  and  stood  beside  her.  "The  woman  was 
Lais  the  Greek.  Five  years  since  I  freed  her,  and  bought 
for  her  a  flower  shop.  Then  we  became  as  strangers. 
Thou  knowest  that  illness  I  had,  five  years  ago,  and  how, 
recovering,  I  changed  much  in  my  life.  .  .  .  The  freed- 
woman  has  her  shop  of  flowers,  and  if  I  remember  her  aright 
will  be  ever  warm  and  kind  to  the  child." 

"What  is  her  name  —  the  child's?" 

"Her  name?  ...  I  cannot,"  said  Valerian,  "remember 
it." 

From  the  Rhine,  from  post  to  post,  along  the  Roman 
roads,  came  with  swiftness  tidings  that  again  the  Mar- 
comanni  had  risen  in  revolt.  Back  to  his  legion,  encamped 
upon  that  river,  hastened  Valerian.  Arrived,  he  made 
junction  with  an  endangered  legion  stationed  inland,  and 
drove  with  twin  eagles  against  the  Marcomanni.  These 
broke,  these  fled ;  a  host  was  slain,  a  host  taken.  The  brand 
of  revolt,  dashed  against  earth,  had  its  fire  put  out.  The 
auxiliaries  who  brought  to  Rome,  over  hundreds  of  leagues, 
over  Roman  roads,  to  slavery,  to  the  games  of  the  Amphi- 


VALERIAN   AND   VALERIA  249 

theatre,  the  huge  many  of  prisoners,  brought  also  praise  of 
Valerian.  The  victory  praised  him,  the  safety  of  the  legions 
praised  him.  The  emperor  nodded,  looked  aslant,  made 
the  sign  that  kept  away  evil.  Said  one  under  his  breath  to 
another  in  the  house  of  Caesar,  "Do  not  win  too  much  nor 
be  liked  too  well,  for  that  is  the  road  to  the  Mamertine!" 

|Valerian,  far  from  Rome  and  that  savour  of  incense  and 
look  of  danger,  obeyed  soldierly  duty  and  something  higher. 
Revolt  subdued,  he  conciliated,  organized,  administered, 
and  all  was  done  well.  It  took  time.  Months  rolled  away 
in  the  northern  forests,  by  the  northern  streams.  The 
months  became  a  year,  the  year  two  years,  the  two  three. 
Valerian  wrote  to  Rome,  asking  permission  to  return  for  a 
while  to  family  and  estate.  Permission  was  denied.  He  had 
thought  that  it  would  be  so,  for  letters  told  him  that  ever 
more  and  more  Caesar  hated  other  men's  successes,  and 
that,  besides,  certain  foes  of  his  worked  against  him  in 
Rome.  Upon  the  heels  of  that  denial  came  an  order  to 
proceed  to  the  command  of  a  legion  in  Britain.  That  was 
to  leave  a  famous  legion  for  one  not  so  famed.  That  was  to 
leave  captain  and  soldiers  who  engaged  for  victory  where 
soever  he  led  for  others  who  knew  him  not.  It  was  to  leave 
a  region  that  he  knew  for  obscure  struggles  with  the  Cale 
donians  at  the  edge  of  the  world.  Valerian  sat  with  his  chin 
in  his  hand,  and  pondered  his  own  revolt  —  his  own  and 
the  famed  legion,  drawing  with  it  other  legions.  He 
shook  his  head;  he  consulted  loyalty  and  the  public  good. 
Obeying  the  imperial  word,  he  set  his  face  to  the  west,  he 
travelled  long  and  far,  and  crossed  the  narrow  sea  and  came 
to  Britain  and  travelled  the  Roman  road  to  the  legion  in 
the  north.  Here  he  stayed  two  years  and  did  well,  so  well 
that  at  the  end  of  that  time  he  was  sent  to  command  not  a 


THE   WANDERERS 

legion,  but  auxiliary  troops  in  a  poor  and  drowsy  corner 
of  the  empire  where  Opportunity  might  be  expected  never 
to  show  her  face.  Expectation  was  disappointed;  in  the 
third  year  Opportunity  appeared  with  suddenness.  Vale 
rian  took  her  by  both  hands.  His  name  once  more  became 
sonorous.  When  he  had  been  almost  ten  years  from  Rome 
he  was  summoned  home.  He  was  sure  that  it  was  to 
ruin. 

There  were  lines  in  his  forehead,  a  little  silver  in  his  hair 
and  short  beard.  The  rime,  the  breath  of  the  fir  wood  clung 
about  him.  In  Valeria's  hair  there  was  silver.  She  met 
him  alone,  beneath  the  old  olive  tree,  upon  the  slope  be 
fore  the  villa  in  the  Alban  Hills.  He  had  sent  those  with 
him  another  way;  he  came  to  her  alone  with,  in  his  step, 
the  eagerness  of  youth.  She  stood  robed  in  white;  she  had 
for  him  who,  in  the  wilderness,  had  increased  in  inward 
stature,  a  new  beauty  and  majesty. 

"Hail,  Valerian!" 

"Hail,  Valeria !"  Each  held  the  other  embraced.  "Long 
—  long  —  long  has  it  been!" 

They  climbed  the  hillside.  "Are  you  safe,  Valerian, — 
are  you  safe,  here  at  Rome,  where  you  should  be  so 
safe—" 

"Not  I!  To-morrow,  Caesar  may  send  to  tell  me, i Open 
your  veins.  Die,  and  ease  me  of  a  jealousy!'  —  Well,  what 
odds?  It  comes  one  day.  What  matter  which  day?" 

The  old  household  slaves  came  about  them.  It  was 
springtime  and  evening  and  loveliness.  As  they  reclined 
at  supper,  as  afterwards  they  walked  the  terrace,  and  at 
last  in  their  chamber  he  watched  Valeria.  Love  rekindled 
in  him,  but  a  graver  love,  a  love  that  was  beginning  to 
think. 


VALERIAN  AND  VALERIA  251 

"We  have  changed,"  he  said. 

"Yes.  There  is  a  worker,  a  sculptor,  a  musician  dealing 
with  us." 

"Life?" 

"Life  also  is  under  its  hand.  ...  In  these  years  that  I 
have  dwelled  here,  lonely  but  for  it,  I  have  felt  it  working. 
It  works  from  a  place  that  our  places  hide." 

"I  learned  something  of  that  in  those  dark,  northern 
woods,  by  those  cold  and  deathly  waters.  There  is  some 
thing  more  than  we  know  or  feel." 

"There  is  a  sky  above  the  sky.  But  that  is  all  I  know. 
I  do  not  yet  breathe  under  it."  t 

Days  and  nights  passed.  Valerian  rested  with  Valeria 
in  the  villa  among  the  hills,  unbidden  to  Rome,  possibly 
unthought  of,  perhaps  unthreatened.  He  began  to  feel  in 
the  peace  about  him  that  he  had  dreamed  that  there  was 
lightning  in  the  clouds  and  an  ambush  in  the  way.  And 
then  he  was  bidden,  he  with  his  wife,  to  a  feast  in  Caesar's 
house.  .  .  .  When  he  came  there,  he  saw  that  all  the  time 
the  sky  had  been  truly  overcast. 

Caesar  made  a  feast  of  phantasy  and  extravagance.  The 
colours  seemed  all  gold,  or  else  the  hue  of  wine.  The  em 
peror  reclined,  garlanded,  and  all  the  guests  were  garlanded, 
and  beautiful  slaves  served  the  tables  with  drink  and 
viands  fantastically  choice,  and  flower  petals  were  shred 
upon  them  from  above.  Voluptuous  music  mixed  with 
the  silver  fall  of  fountains.  At  intervals  dwarfs  or  jug 
glers  or  gladiators  made  entertainment,  or  dancers  came 
like  snow  or  fire  into  the  huge  pillared  room.  There  flowed 
talk  and  talk  and  laughter.  Valerian  and  Valeria  had  their 
places  where  Caesar  might  observe  that  general,  too  liked 
by  soldiers  and  provincials  1  To  an  outcast  looking  in  great 


252  THE   WANDERERS 

and  fine  might  have  seemed  the  feast,  to  an  angel  looking 
down  it  might  have  glittered  evil,  shouted  evil. 

There  were  many  women.  Valeria  made  to  greet  those 
with  whom  she  had  acquaintance  —  no  great  number,  so 
shut  away  for  so  long  had  she  lived.  But  they  greeted 
back  with  the  lips  only,  and  very  coldly.  It  was  evident 
that  none  here  wished  to  be  called  the  friend  of  the  wife  of 
Valerian.  She  felt  for  Valerian  a  passion  of  sympathy.  She 
sat,  watching  carefully  her  own  words  and  smiles  lest  any 
where  they  might  not  serve  his  fortunes.  She  thought  that 
now  she  could  know  no  hurt  save  where  he  knew  hurt. 

For  the  most  part  the  women  here  were  patrician  women 
whose  minds  lay  rank  earth  for  the  growing  of  ill  weeds. 
For  the  most  part  the  men  of  the  feast  mated  them  well. 
Virtue  there  was  in  the  empire,  virtue  even  here,  but  here, 
in  proportion,  little  virtue.  .  .  .  Valeria,  regarding  the 
women,  saw  Livia  and  Porcia  and  Lucilla,  and  others  like 
the  three. 

They  had  riches,  the  energetic  men  of  their  houses  gain 
ing,  long  since,  lands  and  honours  and  wealth.  Slaves 
there  were  by  the  score  and  the  hundred  to  take  from 
them  effort  in  behalf  even  of  their  own  persons.  They 
might  make  it  if  they  chose,  putting  aside  the  offices  of 
slaves.  But  it  took  virtue  and  hardness  to  make  that 
effort,  and  from  childhood  they  had  had  no  training.  One 
in  blood  and  bone  and  force  with  their  men,  they  might  not 
be  soldier,  nor  administrator,  nor  statesman,  nor  public 
official,  nor  trader,  nor  teacher,  nor  physician,  nor  orator, 
nor  athlete,  nor  student  in  the  schools.  Where  there  were 
children  there  were  slave  nurses,  slave  tutors.  The  huge 
household,  the  "familia, "  was  largely  managed  by  skilled 
slaves.  Everywhere  initiative,  restless  energy,  came  hard 


VALERIAN  AND  VALERIA  253 

against  the  inner  wall  of  law  and  the  outer  wall  of  custom, 
and  they  were  walls  to  keep  in  prisoners!  High  and  thick 
though  they  were,  this  age  saw  some  breaking  through 
toward  freedom  from  that  grasp  of  law,  that  backward 
clutch  from  equal  standing  in  human  rights.  But  the 
breaking  through  seemed  futile  because  it  went  not  all  the 
way,  went  but  the  smallest  portion  of  the  way,  and  so 
could  come  into  but  weak  relations  with  the  whole. 

But  there  was  one  road  upon  which  initiative  was  not 
blocked.  The  patrician  woman  with  youth,  with  fair 
youth,  with  beauty,  with  some  beauty,  with  wit  to  make 
store  gain  more  store,  and  sensual  to  match  sensual  men, 
might  have  power,  power,  power  —  illegitimate,  indirect, 
useless  and  selfish  power!  The  time  was  one  of  libertin 
ism,  and  there  were  libertines,  men  and  women,  and  they 
seemed  to  sit  in  the  chairs  of  the  Fates  and  to  spin  and 
cut  the  threads  of  destiny. 

Valeria  saw  that  Livia  looked  at  her  full,  then  with  a 
laugh  looked  away.  The  man  that  was  Livia's  lover  was 
that  one  who  desired  Valerian's  command.  And  now 
Livia  was  placed  near  to  Caesar  and  had  snared  him  with 
her  thick  eyelashes  and  the  ivory  tower  of  her  throat.  She 
saw  Lucilla  speaking  to  the  man  beside  her,  and  he  was 
that  senator  who  most  coveted  Valerian's  land.  She  saw 
how  many  of  Valerian's  foes  were  here,  and  that  Caesar 
looked  blackly  upon  him.  She  thought  that  he  had  been 
commanded  here  in  order  that  there  might  be  snatched 
and  perverted  some  word  that  he  might  drop.  .  .  .  She 
felt  a  depth  of  anger  and  despair. 

Guests  were  yet  entering.  Now  a  movement  showed  be 
yond  Caesar  a  white-robed,  honour-heaped  figure  —  the 
figure  of  a  priestess  of  Vesta,  bidden  to  this  feast.  .  .  . 


254  THE  WANDERERS 

Valeria  felt  a  shock  of  delight,  a  glow  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  hand  touched  Valerian's.  "Look!  It  is  Flavia!" 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Show  no  love  for  anything  here  to-night 
save  for  Caesar  and  those  whom  he  loves." 

As  best  she  might  she  obeyed.  Every  down-drifting  rose- 
leaf,  every  throb  of  music  touched  her  senses  like  a  cry  of 
danger.  She  had  seen  in  a  forest  doe  or  hare  quiver  when 
twig  rubbed  against  twig.  .  .  .  But  the  vestal  Jier  daughter, 
seeing  her,  gave  an  exclamation.  "My  mother  and  father 
—  I  did  not  know  that  they  would  be  here!"  She  smiled 
upon  them,  down  the  long  board  —  several  noted  it.  ... 
Flavia  was  brightly  fair,  and  she  loved  lights  and  music 
and  flowers  and  all  these  people.  Caesar  sent  her  wine  from 
his  own  flagon. 

On,  with  a  kind  of  ordered  tumult,  went  the  feast.  To 
Valerian,  aware  of  Damocles'  sword  above  him,  to  Vale 
ria  sharing  that  awareness,  it  was  long  —  long! 

There  came  in  a  dancer.  The  clearing  of  a  space  for  her 
alone,  the  fanfare  of  trumpets  that  brought  her  in,  seemed 
to  betoken  her  famed  in  her  art.  She  came,  beautiful,  with 
brown,  waving  locks,  half  nude,  dancing  wonderfully.  She 
was  Iras  the  Greek,  daughter  of  Lais  the  flower-seller. 

Caesar's  guests  applauded  her  dancing.  She  came  on 
twinkling  feet  to  one  and  to  the  other.  She  carried  a  thyr 
sus  tipped  with  a  pine  cone,  wound  with  leaves  and  blos 
soms.  This  she  dipped  into  fountain  spray  as  she  passed, 
then  shook  it  above  this  one  and  that  one,  showering  him 
with  diamonds.  This  man  and  that  man,  drunken,  turn 
ing,  strove  to  clasp  her  by  arm  or  waist,  but  she  danced 
away  from  him,  shaking  the  thyrsus,  shaking  her  brown 
locks.  She  spoke  familiarly  to  any  she  chose,  moving  from 
point  to  point  as  lightly  as  thistledown. 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  255 

When  she  came  to  the  vestal  Flavia  she  touched  her 
robe  with  the  pine  cone.  "Hail,  priestess!  In  what  world 
might  thou  and  I  be  sisters?" 

Flavia  answered,  touching  with  her  fingers  the  diamonds 
that  the  thyrsus  showered, "  In  the  grave,  Iras  the  dancer  1" 
and  laughed  herself  because  she  had  answered  apropos. 

The  dancer,  flashing  on,  came  at  last  to  Valerian.  She 
lifted  her  thyrsus.  "Who  is  it?  Who  is  it?  I  have  seen  him 
before,  but  not  at  banquets  — " 

"The  general  Valerian,"  said  one  behind  her. 

"Valerian I"  Iras  the  dancer  stood  still,  seemed  with 
some  kind  of  shock  to  receive  the  name,  then  with  a  laugh 
she  raised  the  thyrsus  and  holding  it  in  both  hands,  cross 
wise  above  her  head,  danced  away  on  yet  swifter  feet.  But 
she  had  stood  beside  Valerian,  and  that  one  who  had 
spoken  had  looked  from  face  to  face.  And  Valerian,  by 
one  of  his  most  few  friends,  had  been  warned  against  that 
man  that  he  was  of  the  host  of  delators,  a  spy  and  in 
former. 

After  the  dancer  came  in  gladiators.  The  feasting  men 
and  women  sank  lower.  The  room  seemed  unsteadily  lit, 
smelled  of  wine  and  blood.  The  flowers  withered,  speech 
became  confused,  meaningless,  save  that  always  it  menaced 
good.  Caesar  sent  wine  to  Valerian,  more  wine  and  more. 
He  must  drink,  though  he  saw  that  they  would  have  him 
drunken  and  his  tongue  loosened.  Three  came  about  him 
and  drove  the  talk  to  the  legions  and  what,  given  word, 
a  mind-endowed  general  might  do.  Caesar's  cup-bearer 
brought  him  more  wine.  He  strove  to  be  wary  in  talk,  but 
at  last  came  a  mist  and  he  saw  only  that  he  was  talking. 
.  .  .  Came  the  last  viand,  the  last  red  and  golden  wine, 
outside  rose  the  dawn.  And  then  without,  in  the  misty 


256  THE   WANDERERS 

garden  of  the  Caesars,  the  guests  yet  strayed,  and  yet  there 
was  revelling.  But  at  last,  with  the  rising  sun,  all  might  go 
home.  i 

Two  days  and  Valerian  received  an  order  to  return  to 
his  country-house  and  there  hold  himself  captive,  while 
before  the  Senate  was  sifted  a  charge  of  betraying  the 
Commonwealth.  Valerian  went  and  with  him  Valeria.  It 
was  the  late  summer,  and  the  air  was^  sultry  and  there  were 
many  thunder-storms  with  in  between  a  sense  of  burdened 
waiting.  Morn  and  eve,  the  two  paced  the  terrace  and 
looked  to  Rome  afar  in  the  plain.  They  had  their  slaves, 
but  freedmen,  clients  of  Valerian,  came  no  more  as  they 
had  done,  obsequious,  many  as  bees  to  a  garden.  And  old 
friends  did  not  come,  and  kindred  did  not  come.  Only  two 
or  three  came  privily,  speaking  not  of  their  coming  either 
before  the  visit  or  afterwards.  Faustus  the  philosopher, 
now  an  old  man,  came  more  than  once.  And  all  who  came 
and  all  who  stayed  away  knew  that  bolts  were  being  forged 
with  which  to  slay  Valerian.  And  they  trembled  for  them 
selves  who  were  his  kin  or  acquaintance.  • 

Valeria  would  have  caught  the  bolts  in  her  hands,  di 
rected'  them  if  she  might  to  her  bosom  only,  but  there  was 
no  way.  But  all  that  knew  knew  that  she,  too,  would  be 
struck,  blackened,  and  consumed.  Always,  Caesar  finally 
to  ruin  one  ruined  many.  .  .  .  When  they  had  been  at  the 
country-house  a  month  those  who  still  had  come  came  no 
more.  They  heard  that  kindred  and  friends  were  being 
thrown  into  prison.  Faustus  brought  that  news,  and-smil- 
ing  said  that  hardly  might  he  come  again. 

"Faustus,  this  world!" 

"There  are  many  things  to  be  straightened.  When  we 
have  straightened  one,  then  must  we  straighten  another. 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  257 

...  If  with  all  our  will  we  could  reach  the  centre  we  might 
straighten  much  at  once.  But  that  is  Wisdom  and  few  are 
wise!"  r 

He  spent  a  day  and  night  at  the  villa,  looked  cheerfully 
upon  them,  and  went  back  to  Rome  where  he  had  work  to 
do.  He  came  no  more,  and  their  hearts  told  them  that  he 
had  been  taken  in  the  net. 

A  slave,  the  woman  who  had  nursed  her,  brought  the 
dire  news  of  Flavia,  Flavia  in  the  House  of  the  Vestals! 
The  two  were  in  the  garden,  seated  upon  a  marble  bench, 
gazing  idly  at  the  fish  in  the  sunken  marble  basin. 

Came  the  slave  and  threw  herself  at  Valeria's  feet,  clasp 
ing  her  knees.  "Mistress!  Mistress!" 

"Ina!  Ina!   What  is  it?" 

"  I  went  to  the  foot  of  the  vineyard.  One  I  knew  passed 
from  the  city.  It  is  talking  —  it  is  talking  — " 

"Of  what,  Ina?   Of  what?" 
•    "Oh,  Flavia,  mistress!  —  Flavia!  Flavia!" 
'    "Flavia!" 

"Rome  talks.  It  says  that  she,  a  vestal,  has  been  un 
chaste!  The  proof  has  been  gathered,  even  to-day  she  is 
judged  and  condemned! "  Ina's  voice  rose  to  a  shriek.  "It 
says  that  the  earth  will  be  opened  and  Flavia  be  buried 
living!" 

Valerian  beat  his  head  against  the  marble,  but  Valeria 
sat  like  the  marble's  self.  When  at  last  she  spoke,  moved 
her  limbs,  rose  and  went  about  through  the  place  and  the 
time  and  the  small,  slow  events  of  existence,  it  was  like 
a  being  drugged.  In  her  eyes  might  be  seen  one  bound 
down.  .  .  .  There  was  no  help  —  what  help  was  there  in 
all  Rome  and  the  world  ? 

It  might  be  that  the  vestal  was  innocent,  or  it  might  be 


258  THE   WANDERERS 

that  youth  and  fire  in  the  blood  and  some  untoward  near 
ness  and  temptation  had  dragged  her  into  that  pit.  Either 
way,  she  was  to  perish,  seeing  that  certainly  the  people  had 
been  made  to  believe  her  guilty.  Believing  her  so,  there 
was  no  force  to  hold  them  from  throwing  her  to  the  law 
which  of  old  the  Roman  men  had  made.  As  though  the 
two  heard  it  with  their  ears,  they  heard  the  outcry  of  the 
thousands  against  sacrilege  and  broken  law!  They  heard 
the  outcry  for  Flavians  death  by  the  old,  terrible  way! 

In  the  night-time,  life  came  back  to  Valeria's  veins.  The 
broken  will  rose  and  mended  itself.  Reason  said  no  doing 
now  would  help,  but  something  beyond  reason  yet  resisted, 
because  resistance  must  not  be  lost.  She  rose,  she  left 
Valerian  sleeping,  heavy  with  sorrow;  she  woke  Ina  and  took 
from  her  a  coarse  dark  mantle;  she  clad  and  sandalled  her 
self,  and  silently  passed  from  the  house,  and  crossing  the 
terrace,  went  down  through  the  almond  trees  and  the  vine 
yard  to  the  road.  She  had  put  a  brown  stain  upon  her 
face;  stooping,  in  the  slave's  mantle,  she  seemed  an  old 
woman.  What  throbbed  in  her  brain  was  the  intent  to 
reach  Caesar,  at  least  to  cry  to  him  of  the  wrath  of  the  gods. 

In  an  hour  there  overtook  her  a  cart  from  the  hills,  bear 
ing  grapes  and  melons  to  market.  She  begged  a  lift,  and 
the  boy  driving  let  her  seat  herself  upon  the  cart  floor 
among  the  baskets.  When  he  asked  she  told  him  that  she 
was  a  fortune-teller,  come  out  to  the  hills  to  search  for  a 
certain  herb.  —  No,  she  had  not  found  it.  Perhaps  it  did 
not  grow  anywhere  any  longer.  —  "What  is  its  name?" 
—  "Justice."  I 

She  passed  with  the  boy  through  the  gates  at  dawn. 
Leaving  him  and  his  cart  she  stole  afoot  through  the  grey 
streets  to  the  Palatine.  There  she  found  the  stairway,  cut 


VALERIAN  AND   VALERIA  259 

in  the  rock,  leading  to  the  summit  and  the  palace  where 
dwelt  Caesar,  and  here  at  the  foot  in  a  broad  space  where 
were  always  beggars  and  petitioners  she  sat  down,  drew 
her  mantle  yet  farther  over  her  brow,  and  extended  her 
hand  as  if  for  begging.  When  the  day  was  here,  surely  at 
some  hour,  Caesar  would  come  by! 

Much  after  sunrise,  a  portly,  good-natured-looking 
personage  approached,  passed,  and  passing  tossed  her  a 
small  coin.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  clasped  his  mantle 
and  asked  if  Caesar  would  that  day  leave  the  palace,  come 
this  way.  "  It  is  probable  —  it  is  probable ! "  said  the  good- 
natured  personage  and  went  on  to  climb  the  hill. 

Noon  came  and  afternoon.  A  stream  went  up  the  stair, 
a  stream  came  down  the  stair,  but  never  Caesar. 

When  the  sun  was  westering  fast  Valeria  crossed  to  a 
legless  man  under  an  ilex  tree.  "Is  Caesar  never  coming 
down  to  throw  us  money?" 

"Have  you  feet,"  said  the  legless  man,  "and  see  not  all 
that  happens  in  the  world?  —  Caesar  is  not  in  the  palace. 
He  is  at  his  villa  on  the  Appian  Way.  He  went  there  yes 
terday  and  with  him  a  troop  of  those  of  the  wilder  sort  — 
not  sober  children  like  you  and  mel" 

It  was  twilight  when  she  went  by  the  House  of  the 
Vestals,  and  going,  raised  her  arms  to  the  darkening  sky. 
Flavia  was  not  in  that  house.  She  was  away  from  the 
mercies  of  Vesta.  She  was  in  prison,  and  out  by  the  gate 
of  the  Sabine  road  they  opened  the  earth.  .  .  . 

Valeria's  senses  swam.  To  give  her  strength  she  bought 
bread  with  the  coin  yet  in  her  hand,  and  ate  it  as  she 
walked.  It  was  now  night,  and  the  ways  no  longer  crowded. 
She  was  moving  toward  the  Appian  Gate.  Carts  rumbled 
by,  then  passed  horse-litters  or  palanquins  borne  by  slaves; 


260  THE  WANDERERS 

there  were  people  afoot,  revellers  and  tavern-haunters, 
Romans  on  graver  business,  freedmen,  slaves,  beggars, 
men  and  old  women,  women  of  the  streets  and  those  who 
accompanied  them.  Dogs  prowled,  there  came  strains  of 
music,  flashes  from  swinging  lanterns,  stretches  of  vacancy 
and  darkness.  She  passed  a  shop  with  a  painted  rose 
for  sign  and  entered  one  of  those  spaces  of  what  seemed 
dark  emptiness.  Seemed,  for  presently  she  heard  before 
her  stumbling  feet  and  sobbing  breath,  and  overtook  a 
woman,  going  also  toward  the  Appian  Gate. 

There  appeared  to  be  no  one  abroad  here  in  the  night 
time  who  concerned  them  or  gave  them  notice.  .  .  .  They 
came  together  to  the  gate,  not  closed  yet  for  the  night. 
A  press  of  folk  of  the  poorer  sort  were  going  and  coming. 
A  keeper  stopped  the  two,  demanding  their  business.  "I 
sell  flowers,"  said  the  woman,  "and  an  order  has  gone 
wrong!  I  must  out  to  my  patron's  to  see  about  it.  Why, 
you  know  me  —  Lais  the  Greek!" 

It  seemed  that  that  was  true.  The  man  struck  her  upon 
the  shoulder,  took  a  kiss  and  let  her  by.  He  thought  that 
the  other  woman,  who  seemed  old  and  bent,  was  of  her 
company.  The  two  passed  to  Rome  without  the  walls. 
The  night  was  powdered  with  stars.  Before  them  stretched 
the  Appian  Way  with  the  great  tombs  upon  it,  and  back 
ward  upon  either  hand,  rich  gardens  and  villas.  There  was 
far  to  go  to  Caesar's  house  upon  this  road. 

Lais  the  Greek  sobbed  again.  "What  doubt  that  I  too 
die,  and  my  shop?  And  what  care  I  now  if  we  do?" 

Valeria  walked  in  silence.  She  looked  before  her,  but 
truly  she  was  seeing  the  waste  field  outside  the  Sabine 
Gate. 

But  it  seemed  that  the  other  woman  had  passed  one 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  261 

silence  and  not  come  to  another.  "Men  —  men!  Daemons 
are  their  gods  and  daemons  are  themselves!  ...  It  is  true 
what  the  Christians  say.  ...  So  many  years  ago,  Vale 
rian,  but  all  things  find  us  out!" 

"  Valerian"  said  Valeria.  "Lais  the  flower-seller.  .  .  . 
Where  are  you  going,  Lais?" 

"To  Caesar's  villa.  You  do  not  look  old  any  longer.  I 
have  seen  you  before.  Who  are  you?" 

"Valeria  is  my  name.  .  .  .  Why  are  you  going  to 
Caesar?" 

"  Valeria!  Valeria!  I  might  have  guessed  that!  You  are 
going,  too,  to  beg,  beg,  beg  with  your  face  against  Caesar's 
feet!  —  Oh,  your  daughter,  too!  Oh,  that  vestal  for  whom 
they  dig  a  chamber  under  ground  — " 

"Where  is  your  daughter,  the  dancer?" 

"Valerian's  daughter?  In  danger.  Are  not  all  things 
that  are  Valerian's  in  danger?  I,  a  poor  freedwoman,  I  too 
shall  perish,  as  will  you,  Valeria.  .  .  .  But  it  is  these 
daughters.  Ai!  Ai!  The  daughters  of  women!" 

They  made  on.  In  the  dimness  the  flower-seller,  coming 
against  some  obstruction,  stumbled  and  was  brought  to 
the  ground.  Valeria  stooping  helped  her  rise.  The  touch 
drew  each  to  each.  They  stood  for  a  moment  under  the 
stars,  clinging  close,  each  to  each. 

"How,"  asked  Valeria,  "is  thy  daughter  in  danger?" 

"Was  spawned  an  intelligencer,  a  spy!  He  swelled  and 
lives  to  hunt  out  all  who  have  blood  the  colour  of  Vale 
rian's  !  Some  neighbour  told  him.  .  .  .  Went  a  word  to  the 
wolf-dogs,  'Iras  the  dancer  has  blood  the  very  colour! 
Perhaps  in  secret  Valerian  cherishes  her,  and  will  be  hurt 
by  her  hurt,  as  by  the  vestal's  — ' " 

"Oh-hh!" 


262  THE   WANDERERS 

"What  does  woman's  moaning  do?  ...  They  took  my 
girl,  saying  that  she  was  to  dance  at  Caesar's  feast.  —  O 
Hecate,  hear  me!  We  thought  it  only  a  palace  feast  with 
men  and  women  and  toying  and  dallying!  I  kissed  her  and 
laughed  when  she  went.  That  was  yesterday.  No,  it  was 
the  day  before  yesterday.  Yesterday  it  was  that  I  heard 
through  Priscus  of  ruin  and  death,  blooming  for  all  that 
ever  were  called  Valerian's  —  blooming  so  for  the  dancer 
Iras!" 

"O  Flavia,  thy  woe!  —  O  the  flowers  of  this  garden!" 

"Then  I  went  with  Priscus  whom  I  had  nursed  of  a 
fever  and  who  is  a  Christian  and  has  a  brother  who  serves 
a  knight  that  is  of  Caesar's  band.  So  by  littles  we 
learned —  but  that  brought  it  to  this  very  sunset.  ...  So 
I  heard  that  she  was  taken  to  that  villa  where  devil's  ill  is 
done.  Caesar  is  there,  and  men  of  Caesar's  bosom!" 

They  had  come  to  cypress  trees  by  a  huge  and  marble 
tomb.  Lais's  limbs  failed  her,  she  sank  upon  the  earth  and 
stretched  her  arms  along  it.  Valeria,  standing,  regarded 
the  huge  shadow  of  the  night.  Her  lips  moved.  "Women 
against  men  —  crowned  men.  .  .  .  Helpless  —  helpless! 
Where  they  will  ravin,  they  will  ravin.  Where  are  our 
arms,  where  are  our  minds,  where  are  our  souls?  .  .  .  And 
some  they  make  courtesans,  and  some  they  make  vestals. 
And  the  one  they  feed  upon,  and  they  cry  for  more  women 
for  food.  And  the  other  must  be  pure,  and  if  she  breaks 
their  law  —  once,  once  —  they  slay  her,  making  for  her 
a  terrible  death!  And  each  way  they  themselves  are  law 
less  and  cruel.  And  where  is  any  advocate,  and  any  god?" 

Lais  rose  from  the  earth  —  they  went  on  together  — 
they  had  miles  to  go.  Hurrying  all  they  might,  lurking  in 
shadows  of  tombs  while  other  night-farers  went  by,  the 


VALERIAN   AND  VALERIA  263 

night  was  late  when  they  came  to  the  grove  that  was 
Caesar's,  and  the  wall  that  enclosed  a  vast  garden,  and  the 
long  gleam,  far  from  the  road,  showing  that  country-house, 
lighted  still,  revelling  still! 

They  would  not  go  to  the  gate  and  the  lodge  with  the 
praetorians  there  —  that  would  be  almost  certainly  never 
to  pass !  They  sought  where  they  might  climb  the  garden 
wall.  A  stream  went  by,  close  below  the  walls,  flowing  to 
Tiber.  Turning  from  the  road,  they  went  along  this  water, 
moving  out  of  the  moonlight,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
wall,  seeking  some  stout  twist  of  the  over-covering  ivy. 
What  they  should  do  when  they  reached  the  garden,  when 
they  reached  the  house  where  spread  before  every  door 
would  be  guards  and  slaves,  they  did  not  know.  They 
knew  that  what  they  did  must  be  called  hopeless.  Yet  was 
there  a  wildness  of  hope.  They  did  not  think  at  all  of  them 
selves.  One  saw  only  Flavia,  the  other  Iras.  They  them 
selves  were  already  dead,  and  Valerian  was  dead,  but  there 
were  the  daughters.  .  .  . 

They  came,  still  seeking  through  the  ivy,  to  a  door  in  the 
wall,  clamped  with  iron.  They  tried  it,  but  it  was  fast, 
resisting  all  their  strength.  Lais  leaned  against  it.  "I 
tremble,  I  tremble!  .  .  .  O  Iras!  thou  wast  truly  my  all!" 

They  went  a  little  farther,  still  creeping  by  the  wall. 
The  bank  here  was  steep,  the  stream  turbid  and  swollen 
from  a  recent  storm  among  the  mountains.  It  went  by 
them  with  a  hollow  sound,  and  the  moon  whitened  the 
wave.  Something  lay  beside  the  bank,  caught  and  up 
lifted  by  a  great  stone,  half  in,  half  out  of  the  water.  When 
they  came  to  it  they  saw  that  it  was  the  naked  body  of  a 
woman.  .  .  .  Lais  put  her  arms  beneath  and  raised  it 
wholly  upon  the  bank.  There  was  no  life,  and  there  had 


264  THE   WANDERERS 

been  many  a  wrong  inflicted  before  life  went.  Lais  began 
to  laugh.  "Iras!  Get  up  and  dance,  Iras!  Dance  for 
Caesar,  and  every  man  his  friend!" 

When  Valeria  saw  that  there  was  no  moving  her,  nor 
making  her  attend,  nor  drawing  her  farther,  nor  winning 
her  to  go  back,  nor  help  for  her,  nor  any  sense  that  might 
be  appealed  to,  she  left  the  flower-seller  there,  the  dead 
girl  in  her  arms.  She  herself  went  on,  feeling  among  the 
ivy  for  that  twisted  stem  to  climb  by.  She  found  such  an 
one,  put  hand  and  foot  to  it  and  mounted  to  the  top  of  the 
wall,  crept  over  it  and  dropped  into  the  garden  beneath. 
She  was  in  a  laurel  grove  with  a  white  statue  rising  from 
the  middle,  then  in  a  long  alley  of  like  trees.  The  branches 
arched  into  a  low  roof,  the  moon  was  shut  out,  she  had  a 
sense  of  suffocation,  she  felt  the  chamber  underground  by 
the  Sabine  Gate.  Her  hands,  locked  before  her,  beat  the 
dark.  The  alley  widened,  she  came  out  into  the  light  and 
saw  and  heard  Caesar's  house,  flaming  with  lamps,  yelling 
with  drunken  mirth. 

Slaves  stopped  her  ere  she  reached  the  door.  Her  will, 
one-pointed,  strove  to  bear  all  through.  "I  have  a  mes 
sage  for  Caesar!  Woe  is,  if  he  does  not  hear  it!" 

"  Who  let  her  pass?  She  came  on  a  wind  from  the  moun 
tains.  —  She  is  a  sibyl!  —  Caesar  may  flay  us  if  we  do  not 
let  her  in.  —  Call  the  Captain  of  the  Guard!" 

He  came  —  a  man  who  had  been  bred  upon  the  hills  in 
sight  of  Rome. 

"I  have  a  message  for  Caesar.  It  imports  him  to  hear!" 

"Take  the  mantle  from  her.  —  Valeria,  wife  of  Valerian, 
I  guess  that  message!" 

Yet  she  saw  Caesar,  and  flung  herself  at  his  feet.  He  was 
drunken  and  sated.  "Take  her  away!  Send  her  to  Rome. 


VALERIAN   AND   VALERIA  265 

Let  her  see  the  vestal  punished  who  defiled  the  House  of 
Vesta!" 

"Caesar!  My  message — " 

The  emperor's  eyes  closed.  "There  was  left  an  order  to 
bring  that  same  Valerian  to  the  Mamertine.  When  she  has 
seen  the  vestal  buried,  fling  her  with  Valerian  there!" 

Dark  was  that  chamber  of  the  Mamertine  where  at  the 
last  she  came  to  Valerian.  She  came  with  white  hair  though 
she  was  not  old.  They  sat  side  by  side,  all  things  being  now 
so  equal,  and  feared  not  the  coming  death.  When  finally 
daggers  and  ropes  were  brought  them  they  took  the  keen 
blades  in  their  hands  with  a  smile. 

"How  much  have  we  been  through  together!"  said 
Valerian.  "This  little,  low  door  also!" 

"We  are  greater  than  we  know,  and  have  been  longer 
together  than  we  remember.  Farewell,  Valerian,  until  I 
see  thee  again,  and  may  it  not  be  long!" 

Each  marked  and  drove  the  dagger  into  the  vital  place. 
The  blood  gushed,  their  hands  clasped,  their  eyes  dark 
ened. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

ALLEDA   AND   ALARAN 

THE  mighty  oak  forest,  the  mighty  forest  of  beech  and 
fir  and  chestnut,  birch  and  ash,  stretched  north  and  south 
and  east  and  west.  Clearings  there  were,  but  the  clearings 
soon  dipped  into  forest.  The  clearings  were  rifts  in  a  clouded 
heaven,  sunny  patches  on  a  shadowed  ocean.  Fine  threads 
of  light,  rude  roads,  tracks,  paths,  tied  clearing  to  clear 
ing.  Timber  houses  rose  from  the  open  spaces.  Some 
times  there  rose  only  one  house,  sometimes  two  or  three 
together,  more  seldom  quite  a  number  grouped  in  one 
great  clearing.  The  houses  were  of  great  untrimmed  logs, 
the  roofs  of  thatch.  They  were  as  rude  as  the  time  in  the 
northern  forest;  a  few  houses,  many  huts.  Fields  there 
were,  irregularly  sown,  and  great  meadow  stretches  by 
the  streams  for  the  numerous  cattle.  From  the  air  an 
eagle  might  see  that  all  these  clearings,  great  and  small, 
made  a  constellation,  and  that  there  were  other  constella 
tions  linked  to  the  first  by  some  type  of  road  driven  across 
leagues  of  forest.  Taken  all  together,  they  indicated  a 
tribe  or  nation  of  northern  folk.  Off  in  the  rounding  mist 
where  the  forest  tracks  broke,  beyond  leagues  of  smooth, 
succeeding  forest,  abode  other  and  similar  nations.  And 
all  the  tribes  and  nations,  though  they  were  so  similar, 
spent  much  of  their  time  in  warring  against  one  another. 
To  the  southward,  beyond  the  eagle's  horizon,  far  and  far 
and  far  beyond,  were  the  provinces  of  Rome,  and  the 
power  of  Rome,  and  farther,  farther,  farther  south,  Rome 


ALLEDA   AND  ALARAN  267 

itself.  And  all  the  constellations,  and  all  the  barbarian 
tribes  and  nations  hungered  after  the  fatness  thereof. 

The  eagle,  over-flying  an  oaken  and  a  beechen  world, 
might  look  down  upon  a  clearing  beside  a  broad  and  limpid 
stream,  and  upon  the  house  of  Terig,  chief  of  a  Gothic 
tribe.  The  house  was  large  and  low,  built  of  fir-wood, 
heavy-walled,  well-roofed,  a  great  place  according  to  the 
barbarian  mind.  It  had  dependent  huts  in  number,  it 
looked  forth  upon  the  river  where  were  fish,  and  upon 
fields  of  wheat  and  rye,  and  upon  pasturage  over-roamed  by 
a  vast  herd  of  cattle,  and  upon  the  forest  filled  with  hunt 
ers'  fare.  And  into  its  great  hall  came,  every  day,  to  feast 
with  Terig,  a  hundred  Gothic  men  and  women.  And  when 
Terig  sent  forth  and  called  a  folk-meet  came,  from  clear 
ings  far  and  near,  hundreds  to  the  green  field  before  the 
house  where  grew  an  oak  so  old  no  bard  could  guess  when 
it  was  born.  And  when  Terig  said  war  came  to  Terig  Oak  all 
of  the  nation  that  might  walk  or  be  brought  in  the  great 
ox-wagons. 

It  was  a  shield-clashing  and  a  war-like  people,  tall  and 
strong  of  body,  both  men  and  women.  For  virtues  it  had 
courage  and  chastity,  great  personal  liberty  side  by  side 
with  a  chieftain-loyalty  often  carried  fantastically  far, 
comrade-loyalty,  a  considerable  feeling  for  truth,  and  some 
perception  of  justice.  There  held  a  northern  and  barbarian 
reverence  for  women.  It  had  imagination,  and  was  a  wor 
shipper  of  the  powers  of  nature,  vaguely  personified.  It  had 
iron,  but  little  silver  and  gold.  It  had  not  letters.  Its  bards 
made  some  amends  for  that.  Now  and  again  came  contact 
—  antennae  touching  —  with  the  Roman  provinces  to  the 
south.  Then  was  brought  news  of  strange  powers  and 
gifts !  There  were  Goths  who  hungered  for  these,  as  there 


268  THE   WANDERERS 

were  many  Goths  who  hungered  for  other  wealth  of 
Rome. 

Sometimes  the  forest  was  dark  and  heavy  with  gloom, 
and  sometimes  it  was  wholly  an  airy  gold.  Sometimes  it 
stood  breathlessly  silent,  and  sometimes  it  whispered  and 
spoke.  Alleda,  the  young  maiden,  hostage  from  a  Vandal 
tribe,  brought  up  since  childhood  in  the  house  of  Terig, 
liked  it  silent  and  liked  it  speaking.  She  and  Alaran,  the 
son  of  Terig,  old  to  a  day  with  her,  liked  it  in  all  its  ways. 
They  wandered  together  in  its  aisles  and  caverns,  purple 
and  green  and  brown  and  gold,  and,  kneeling,  drank  from 
its  springs  and  streams,  he  for  pleasure  drinking  from  her 
cupped  hands,  and  she  from  his.  They  lay  in  the  sunshine, 
they  fled  from  storms;  in  the  open  glades  or  from  the  bare 
hilltop  they  looked  for  the  rainbow. 

Alleda  wore  a  chemise  of  white  linen  and  a  skirt  of 
woollen  dyed  gentian  blue.  She  had  shoes  of  doeskin  and 
a  mantle  of  the  wool.  Now  her  hair  hung  loose,  and  now  she 
braided  it  in  two  long  thick  braids  that  fell  to  her  knees. 
Alaran  had  a  tunic  of  soft  leather,  brown  like  the  wood  in 
autumn,  and  leather  shoes  with  thongs  that  crossed  and 
recrossed  and  were  tied  at  his  knee.  He  had  a  cloak  of  red, 
and  a  woollen  fillet  around  his  head  to  hold  an  eagle 
feather,  and  in  his  belt  a  sheathed  knife.  Alleda  had 
been  given  by  the  Vandal  chief  her  father  to  Terig  when 
she  was  little,  pledge  of  quietude  on  the  part  of  the  Vandals. 
For  ten  years  she  and  Alaran  had  roamed  the  forest  in 
company.  It  seemed  to  them  that  they  had  been  always 
together.  Sometimes  they  quarrelled,  but  oftener  they 
were  good  friends. 

Terig,  looking  at  them  upon  a  time,  said  to  himself,  "If 
the  Goths  and  Vandals  marry  there  may  be  a  son  who, 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  269 

one  day,  shall  rule  them  both!"  The  idea  pleased  him,  and 
he  turned  it  over  and  over,  drinking  mead  out  of  a  great 
silver  cup  that,  passing  from  hand  to  hand,  had  come  to 
him  from  Rome,  sitting  beneath  his  oak  tree  of  whose 
age  no  bard  had  record.  That  was  when  Alleda  and  Alaran 
were  very  young.  Terig,  hunting  and  fighting  and  judging, 
sleeping  and  eating  and  drinking,  let  several  years  go  by. 
Terig's  wife  was  dead,  but  his  sister,  Fritha,  headed  the 
women  and  gave  him,  when  he  asked  it,  good  advice.  Terig, 
a  good  giant  two  thirds  of  the  time,  and  the  other  third 
a  monstrous,  ravening  wild  boar,  went  his  ways  and  let 
Alleda  and  Alaran  play  another  while.  When  they  were 
children  no  longer,  but  boy  and  girl,  Terig  sent  an  embassy 
to  the  Vandal  chief.  His  wisest  warrior  went  and  the  bard 
who  ate  at  Terig's  table,  and  with  them  a  band  of  shield- 
clashing  young  men.  When  they  returned,  bringing  with 
them  certain  great  ones  from  among  the  assenting  Vandals, 
Terig  summoned  a  folk-meet.  Alleda  and  Alaran  were 
betrothed,  under  the  Terig  Oak,  in  the  presence  of  Goths 
and  Vandals.  When  they  were  eighteen  they  should  be 
wed. 

Alleda  and  Alaran,  now  youth  and  maiden,  roamed  the 
forest  or  sat  beside  the  river  and  bending  over  saw  two 
fair  creatures  in  the  glassy  flood.  They  had  a  boat  named 
Black  Swan,  and  they  rowed  in  this  where  they  would. 
They  fished  together,  they  found  the  honey  hives  in  rocks 
and  ancient  trees,  they  told  each  other  all  their  adventures 
of  body  or  spirit.  At  sunrise  they  might  be  heard  singing: 
when  evening  came,  or  on  weather  days  when  men  and 
women  crowded  into  the  hall  and  the  fire  was  heaped  with 
wood,  they  sat  as  near  each  other  as  they  might.  Emberic 
the  bard  sang  loudly  of  Gothic  glory,  Gothic  heroes  and 


2yo  THE   WANDERERS 

heroines.  Alleda  and  Alaran,  listening,  kindling,  sought 
eyes  with  eyes,  soul  with  soul. 

Terig,  chancing  to  observe  them  one  day,  said  to  him 
self:  "He  is  too  much  with  her,  too  little  with  the  young 
men.  That  is  not  as  it  should  be.  I  cannot  live  forever, 
and  he  must  learn  to  be  king  in  his  turn." 

Terig  turned  it  over  before  he  slept  that  night.  In  the 
morning  he  summoned  Alleda  and  Alaran  and  gave  his 
Gothic  commands.  Henceforth  they  were  less  and  less 
alone  together. 

Alaran  hunted  with  the  young  men,  played  at  games  of 
war  with  the  young  men,  went  with  chief  men  on  Terig' s 
errands  to  neighbouring  constellations.  He  grew  in  stat 
ure  and  breadth  of  shoulder  and  strength  of  arm.  His 
voice  deepened,  his  mind  changed.  Terig  Oak  saw  in 
him  leader,  saw  in  him  king,  when  Time  should  beckon 
Terig. 

Alleda  sat  beside  Fritha  and  span,  or  walked  beside  the 
river  with  young  women,  or  roamed  with  them  the  forest, 
or  roamed  alone.  More  and  more  she  went  alone.  Thrown 
back  upon  herself  she  found  within  herself  companions. 
But  she  loved  Alaran  and  missed  him.  And  once  they  met 
unawares  by  a  forest  stream,  and  all  the  woods  were  full 
of  light,  and  a  thrush  was  singing  like  a  freed  spirit. 
Moved  they  knew  not  how,  they  fled  each  to  the  other's 
arms.  "Alleda!"  — "Alaran!"  Then  came  Terig,  hunt 
ing  with  his  son,  and  they  sprang  apart.  And,  presently, 
sitting  alone,  she  heard,  deep  in  the  wood,  Alaran's  horn. 

In  the  autumn  of  that  year  Terig,  hunting  afar  in  sav 
age  woods,  had  a  boar's  tusk  driven  through  his  thigh. 
His  men  brought  him  to  Terig  Oak  on  a  litter  of  boughs. 
There  he  must  lie  abed,  the  wound  doing  ill.  It  continued 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  271 

unthriving,  though  Fritha  had  healing  wisdom,  and  though 
the  priests  came  from  the  sacred  grove  and  made  incanta 
tions  above  it.  Terig  lay  upon  bear-skins,  swearing  and 
fevered  and  growing  weak,  and  the  wise  women  tried  and 
the  wise  men,  but  none  could  heal  the  wound.  Terig  saw 
an  ox-death  before  him,  and  shut  his  eyes  in  a  sick  dis 
taste. 

At  this  moment  came  Victorinus  to  the  Goths. 

Valentinian  II  was  emperor,  Syricius  pope.  Victorinus 
had  held  a  bishopric,  but  zeal  for  the  conversion  of  the 
heathen  ate  sleep  from  his  eyes  and  flesh  from  his  bones 
and  from  his  heart  willingness  to  rest  in  the  cushioned 
places  of  the  Church.  He  resigned  his  bishop's  crook,  took 
a  staff  of  oak,  tied  to  it  a  cross,  drew  about  him  ten  of  his 
spiritual  sons,  and  with  them  fared  from  the  Gallic  city, 
till  then  the  scene  of  his  labours.  He  fared  northward, 
crossed  after  many  days  the  Rhine,  fared  onward,  north 
ward,  and  eastward.  He  was  not  for  tribes  and  nations 
who  might  hear  daily  of  Christ  and  Paul;  he  was  for  bar 
barians  who  had  never  heard  or  heard  but  the  faintest  ru 
mour.  He  was  told  of  a  Gothic  people  that  had  not  moved 
with  other  Goths  into  Dacia.  Victorinus  turned  his  face  in 
that  direction.  At  last  he  and  his  following  came  to  islands 
in  the  forest  ocean,  came  to  Goths,  came  to  Terig  Oak. 

He  stood  in  his  Roman  dress,  with  the  oak  staff  and  the 
bound  cross  advanced,  and  ranged  behind  him  the  ten 
Christian  men  and  three  barbarian  converts,  who  served 
him  for  interpreters.  Not  tall,  in  his  sixtieth  year,  he  was 
dark  and  spare  and  filled  with  fire,  had  eyes  that  glowed 
and  a  voice  of  gold  and  honey.  He  would  speak  with  the 
king  of  these  home-staying  Goths. 

"Terig  is  sore  wounded  and  ill  in  his  bed." 


272  THE  WANDERERS 

"O  heathen  folk,  so  much  the  more  should  we  speak  with 
your  king!  Else  he  may  die  unsalved." 

Alaran  cried,  "O  Roman,  are  you  one-who-heals ?  A 
boar  tusked  him." 

"I  have  healing,  young  man,"  answered  Victorinus, 
"for  direr  wounds.  Let  me  see  him." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Alaran.  "Who  heals  Terig,  what 
care  I  if  he  be  stranger  or  home  man?" 

Terig  lay  on  bear-skins,  very  grim,  looking  silently  at 
his  ox-fate.  Staff  in  hand,  Victorinus  stood  and  regarded 
him,  while  in  at  the  ample  doorway  crowded  the  bishop's 
own  following  and  the  household  of  Terig. 

Victorinus  beckoned  from  the  ten  Probus,  the  Milanese 
physician.  "Heal  the  flesh  if  you  can,  Probus.  So  we  may 
sooner  come  to  his  soul." 

Probus  the  physician  healed  Terig  the  Goth,  whereby 
Victorinus  got  permission  to  dwell  in  the  forest  hard-by 
Terig  Oak,  to  fell  trees  and  build  for  himself  and  his  fol 
lowers  a  house,  and  for  his  god  a  church.  For  the  time 
being  that  was  all  he  won.  Terig  said  that  he  was  well 
contented  with  his  own  gods,  and  yawned  whether  Vic 
torinus  spoke  persuasively,  or  with  a  solemn  and  threaten 
ing  air.  But  the  newcomers  might  use  the  forest.  Did  not 
the  deer  and  the  bear  do  that?  Moreover,  Terig  would 
send  men  to  help  in  the  hewing  and  building.  And  Terig 
would  not  let  interfere  the  priests  of  the  sacred  grove. 

Victorinus  and  the  ten  Christians  and  those  who  would 
aid  them  cut  down  great  trees  and  trimmed  logs  and  built 
a  chapel  in  the  forest  and  beside  it  a  lodge  for  themselves. 
By  the  time  it  was  done  came  the  winter,  with  snow  and 
ice  upon  the  river,  and  with  howling  storms.  Terig  sent  the 
men  from  the  south  skins  of  beasts  to  keep  them  warm, 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  273 

and  they  made  a  fire  in  the  middle  of  their  great  hut,  and 
the  smoke  went  up  through  a  hole  in  the  roof.  Sometimes 
barbarians  came  and  sat  with  them  about  their  fire,  and 
sometimes  they  went  into  Terig's  hall.  Victorinus  worked 
with  his  hands  and  his  brains.  He  learned  that  winter  the 
tongue  of  the  Goths,  for  he  saw  that  interpreters  knew  not 
how  to  give  gold  and  honey,  fire  and  light.  He  closely 
watched  the  barbarian  life,  seeking  doors  into  their  for 
tress.  Meeting  one  day  Emberic  the  bard,  he  asked  instruc 
tion.  At  first  Emberic  scorned  him  and  would  not  give  it, 
then  came  the  thought  of  imposing  Gothic  glory  upon  the 
Roman  mind.  Emberic  nodded,  sat  beneath  a  fir  tree  and 
chanted  the  tribal  praise.  Warming  to  the  task,  he  threw 
aside  the  bear-skin  from  his  shoulders.  The  snow  was 
coming  down,  and  Victorinus,  shivering  strongly,  looked 
with  longing  upon  the  discarded  covering,  but  presently 
repented  that  weakness,  tore  himself  from  base  desires, 
braced  himself  to  endure  hardness  for  the  gospel's  sake. 
He  sat  in  the  snow  and  listened  to  Emberic.  All  in  all, 
that  winter,  Victorinus  did  much,  learned  much.  But  all  to 
whom  he  would  speak,  through  his  interpreter,  or  halt 
ingly  now  with  his  own  tongue,  of  Christ  and  his  Bride 
the  Church,  broke  away  with  the  saying  that  Terig's  gods 
were  their  gods.  .  .  .  The  priests  of  the  grove  came  to  see 
the  lodge  and  the  chapel.  They  were  not  many.  He 
gathered  that  there  had  been  a  quarrel  between  Terig 
and  them,  and  that  they  held  their  grove  on  sufferance.  "O 
God,  my  God!"  breathed  Victorinus.  "This  is  the  time  — 
this  is  the  timel  If  the  barbarian  king  were  won,  all  were 
won !  And  though  they  be  blindly  won,  thou  wouldst,  little 
by  little,  enlighten  their  blindness!" 

The  priests  of  the  grove  looked  darkly  upon  him  and 


274  THE  WANDERERS 

his  ten,  and  upon  their  fair  chapel  and  house,  and  spoke 
with  contempt  and  with  gestures  of  scorn.  If  they  might 
they  would  have  driven  him  and  his  men  forth,  burning 
what  they  had  built;  doubtless,  if  they  might,  would  have 
seized  and  bound  and  slain  them  upon  the  grey  stone  in 
the  middle  of  their  twilight  wood.  But  they  might  not  do 
any  of  that  for  fear  of  Tferig.  Speak  evil  of  foreigners  and 
foreign  gods  they  might  and  did.  But  Terig's  word  stopped 
the  ears  of  Terig's  men,  drew  the  venom  from  the  priests' 
whispering. 

The  winter  climbed  toward  spring.  Suddenly  flared  war 
between  Goths  and  a  tribe  of  the  Heruli.  Terig  and  all  his 
fighting  men  and  Alaran  his  son  quitted  Terig  Oak, 
marched,  shouting  and  singing,  through  the  forest.  The 
women  and  the  home  men  went  with  them  a  long  way,  but 
at  last,  parting,  poured  back  to  Terig  Oak.  Here  Fritha 
ruled  till  Terig  should  return. 

Now  there  were  flowers  in  the  forest,  and  unfolding  leaves 
and  the  first  singing  of  birds,  the  humming  of  bees,  the  pass 
ing  of  butterflies,  and  throughout  the  days  sunshine  and 
balm.  Alleda  roamed  where  she  would,  and  now  she 
dreamed  of  Alaran,  and  now  she  held  converse  with 
those  late-found  companions  within  herself.  She  did  not 
name  these,  but  they  might  be  named  "  Love-of-Beauty," 
"  Longing-for-  Wisdom." 

The  timber  lodge  was  built,  the  timber  church  was 
built.  The  altar  was  there,  the  space  for  worshippers,  the 
table  for  communicants,  the  benches  for  listeners  to  the 
sermon.  But  save  for  Victorinus  and  the  ten  and  the  three 
converted  whom  they  had  brought  with  them  from  the 
Rhine,  there  were  no  worshippers,  no  communicants,  no 
listeners.  To  Victorinus  the  chapel  ached  like  his  heart 


ALLEDA  AND   ALARAN  275 

for  converts,  for  even  one  —  one!  "One,  Lord,  one!  — 
for  ofttimes  one  bringeth  many!" 

Victorinus  walked  in  the  forest,  praying  as  he  walked. 
Growing  impassioned,  he  no  longer  prayed  aloud,  and 
after  awhile  no  longer  moved  about,  but  kneeled  where  he 
found  himself,  at  the  hemlock  edge  of  a  brown  dell  in  the 
wood.  With  clasped  hands,  with  moveless  limbs,  he 
struggled,  he  wrought  for  that  blessing.  "One,  Lord, 
one—!" 

"  Roman  —  Roman !  Roman  —  Roman ! " 

Victorinus  raised  his  eyes.  There  was  a  woman  seated 
beneath  the  hemlocks  upon  the  other  side  of  the  dell.  He 
rose  to  his  feet.  She  made  no  movement  to  come  to  him; 
she  called  him  across  to  her.  The  bishop  in  Victorinus  felt 
injury,  recoiled,  whereupon  the  saint,  likewise  there,  laid 
hands  upon  that  arrogance.  "A  barbarian  and  a  woman, 
Lord!  .  .  .  Am  I  not  come  to  barbarians,  and  didst  not 
Thou  Thyself,  signal  in  Thy  lowliness,  ofttimes  speak  first 
with  women?" 

Victorinus  descended  the  brown  bank  upon  which  he 
had  kneeled,  crossed  the  dell,  and  mounted  by  huge  roots 
of  trees  to  where  sat  the  woman  who  had  called.  Half 
way  over  the  distance  he  saw  who  it  was  —  Alleda,  the 
Vandal  maiden,  who  was  to  be  wed  to  Alaran,  the  son  of 
Terig. 

Victorinus's  heart  leaped.  His  eye  was  quick,  his  wit 
was  swift.  "Lord,  Lord,  if  I  win  her  to  Thee,  may  she  not 
win  her  husband  who  shall  be  king  of  this  people?  Was  that 
not  what  Patricius  said,  advising  us  who  went  to  the  bar 
barians  to  gain  their  queens?  Lord,  Lord,  Thou  who  wish- 
est  the  world  to  come  to  Thee  dost  not  disdain  to  make 
Thy  nest  in  women's  hearts  I" 


276  THE  WANDERERS 

He  mounted  to  the  huge  root,  coiled  upon  itself  like  a 
serpent,  making  a  seat  for  the  Vandal  girl. 

"Roman  —  Roman!"  she  said.  "To  whom  were  you 
kneeling  over  there  ?" 

Victorinus  had  now,  in  some  sufficiency,  the  language  of 
the  questioner.  And  he  had  his  voice  of  gold  and  honey, 
and  his  eloquence  of  the  mind,  and  the  fire  that  burned  in 
him,  and  the  light  behind  the  fire.  Alleda  listened,  and  her 
eyes  were  wistful,  for  within,  and  that  before  Victorinus's 
arrival,  she  had  become  the  seeker.  She  listened,  and  when 
she  rose  to  retrace  her  steps  to  Terig's  house  she  said,  "  I 
will  come  again  and  listen." 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow." 

Day  after  day  she  turned  her  steps  where  she  might 
meet  the  stranger  with  his  message  from  a  world  out  of 
this  world.  They  met  oftenest  in  the  glade  before  the 
church,  under  trees  where  sang  all  the  birds.  The  little  tim 
ber  building  stood  before  them  while  Victorinus  the  bishop 
painted  the  Church,  the  spiritual  Bride  and  Mother.  He 
drew  with  strength  and  beauty,  he  painted  with  lovely 
colours;  enthusiast,  he  was  skilful  to  lift  the  soul  into  that 
fragrant  air,  to  press  to  its  lips  the  cup  of  sober  inebriation. 
The  chapel  stood  before  them,  the  lodge  and  the  garden 
that  the  ten  brethren  were  making.  Over  all  played  the 
sunshine,  sailed  the  white  clouds. 

"Where  do  you  go?"  asked  Fritha  of  Alleda. 

"  I  go  to  hear  that  Roman  talk  of  his  god.  His  god  speaks 
to  my  heart  more  than  do  our  gods." 

"Our  gods  are  good  enough  for  Terig  and  me." 

"I  say  naught  against  them,"  said  Alleda,  "but  I  climb 
past."  ' 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  277 

Victorinus  preached  Christ,  leading  her  guardedly  from 
height  to  height.  With  all  his  soul  he  would  have  her  soul 
for  his  Lord.  He  saw  that  it  was  a  deep  soul  and  in  need. 
He  wished  its  individual  salvation,  and  always,  behind  it, 
he  saw  looming  tribes  and  nations,  captured  for  Christ.  .  .  . 

He  preached  Christ,  and  she  listened  with  parted  lips 
and  deep  eyes.  She  heard  of  a  god  who  cared,  and  that 
she  did  not  perish  when  she  died.  It  came  hauntingly,  as 
though  she  remembered  that,  but  had  forgotten  and  now 
remembered  again,  vividly  and  eternally.  He  preached  of 
sin,  and  she  acquiesced.  She  knew  that  she  sinned.  He 
preached  salvation,  through  the  love  of  God,  and  because 
he  thought  fit  not  to  dwell  here  upon  the  terrors  of  his 
doctrine,  she  read  it  to  be  through  her  love  of  God  as  well 
as  through  God's  love  fo/her.  She  acquiesced;  when  she 
loved  and  practised  good  she  had  joy;  not  else.  That  joy 
was  salvation.  She  was  somewhat  silent,  not  quickly  and 
easily  moved  as  were  many  converts  of  his  acquaintance. 
Because  of  that  seeming  coldness,  and  because  he  found 
mind  in  her  questions,  Victorinus  put  his  own  mind  fully 
and  strongly  to  the  work.  From  things  she  said  of  the  gods 
of  her  people  —  to  the  Christian,  daemons  —  from  processes 
of  her  thought  that  now  and  then  she  let  him  see  —  he 
found  an  undue  expansiveness  in  her  idea  of  good.  He 
must  prune  away  that  wildness,  bring  into  bounds  that 
barbarian  tolerance  of  ideas  without  kinship,  show  her 
the  narrow  way,  the  one  lighted  way.  His  will,  his  imagina 
tion,  his  genius  worked;  on  all  sides  he  laid  siege  to  her 
soul  to  take  it  solely  for  Christ  and  the  growth  of  His 
Church. 

He  took  her  in  the  spring-time,  in  her  ductile  youth,  in 
the  void  and  loneliness  made  by  Alaran's  going.  He  took 


ay8  THE  WANDERERS 

her  in  a  longing  of  her  nature  for  what  she  knew  not,  save 
that  it  was  higher  than  she  had  climbed,  in  an  inward 
trying  of  the  wings  and  straining  of  the  vision  toward  some 
cloud-banded  eyrie.  He  preached  a  subtile  Stair,  an  un 
seen  Wing.  He  preached  Christ,  and  he  saw  the  fire  slowly 
kindle  in  her  eyes,  and  her  frame  begin  to  tremble. 

One  day  it  came  to  him  to  speak  of  the  women  in  the 
Church  of  his  God.  He  told  of  holy  women,  pure  in  the 
faith,  standing  fast  in  good  works,  dividers  of  bread  to  the 
poor,  nurses  and  consolers  of  the  sick,  visiting  the  captive. 
He  told  of  maidens  who  would  not  wed,  but,  putting  by  the 
sweetness  of  the  flesh,  remained  virgin,  dearer  so  to  their 
heavenly  Lord.  He  told  of  women  who  were  wed,  who  were 
mothers,  who  turning  to  Christ  had,  some  the  sooner,  some 
after  years  of  strivings  unutterable,  the  joy  of  bringing 
husband  or  son  to  His  fold  Who  was  only  safety,  only  joy. 
He  told  of  martyr  women,  told  at  length  their  suffering  and 
triumph,  told  of  Blandina,  Felicitas,  Perpetua,  and  many 
another.  He  told  of  the  women  of  Jerusalem,  of  the  sisters 
of  Lazarus,  of  the  Magdalen,  of  the  Mother  of  Christ.  He 
found,  drawn  into  this  barque,  that  there  was  much  that 
he  must  say  of  women.  The  Vandal  maiden  stood  with 
her  eyes  upon  the  little  church  set  in  the  violet  aisle  of 
the  forest.  Victorinus  made  an  end  of  his  relation  and  sat 
looking  at  his  clasped  hands.  He  had  not  before  in  mind 
drawn  these  women  facts  together.  He  was  moved,  thinking 
of  his  own  mother,  who  in  her  arms  had  brought  him  to  the 
Church,  and  of  his  mother's  mother,  who  had  sealed  her 
faith  with  her  blood  in  the  Diocletian  persecution. 

Said  Alleda,  "If  it  is  Truth,  I  would  persuade  Alaran 
whom  I  wed." 

"O  maiden!"  answered  Victorinus,  "not  alone  your 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  279 

lord  who  will  be  king  of  this  folk,  but  through  him  this 
folk,  this  nation!  Great  would  be  your  service,  and  dearly 
would  Christ  smile  upon  you!" 

That  was  one  day.  Three  passed  before  she  came  again. 
"Tell  me  now  of  the  Soul  Immortal,  of  Heaven,  and  of  the 
Healing  of  the  Nations!" 

The  flowers  increased  in  number,  the  trees  put  forth 
their  leaves,  the  ice  melted  from  every  sunken,  shadowed 
pool,  the  host  of  birds  sang  from  morn  till  eve.  Victorinus 
the  bishop,  with  the  heart  on  fire,  and  the  tongue  of  gold 
and  honey,  gained  the  convert  for  whom  he  prayed.  He 
saw  her  tremble  and  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears;  he  saw 
her  lift  herself  from  the  earth  where  she  had  thrown  herself, 
kneel  and  stand  and  lift  her  hands,  her  face,  to  the  sky;  he 
saw  in  her  face  the  breaking  light  of  an  inner  heaven. 

Alleda  bent  before  the  altar  in  the  chapel  in  the  wood, 
Alleda  confessed  Christ.  The  ten  brethren  witnessing, 
Victorinus  baptized  her.  It  was  done  in  secret,  so  many 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  that  yet  was  in  the  grasp  of  the 
Prince  of  the  Powers  of  the  Air  being  baptized  in  secret. 
One  day  it  should  be  known.  .  .  . 

It  was  Victorinus  who  advised  that  secrecy.  Of  all  tem 
poral  things  in  this  forest,  he  wished  the  marriage  of 
Alaran  and  Alleda,  and  the  continued  love  of  Alaran  for 
Alleda.  Unknown  to  himself,  he  wished  the  death  of  Terig. 
If  Alaran  were  king  in  Terig's  place,  then  might  Alleda, 
when  her  woman's  wiles  had  wrought  a  yielding  and  pro 
pitious  hour,  then  might  Alleda,  kneeling,  say,  "I  am 
Christian:  O  lord  and  husband,  become  Christian  with 
me!"  Then  might  she  bring  Victorinus  to  him,  and  Alaran 
hearken  as  Terig  had  not,  and  all  the  Goths  be  baptized 
with  their  king.  Victorinus  dreamed  so.  ... 


280  THE  WANDERERS 

"Why  do  you  look  so  happy?"  Fritha  asked  Alleda. 
"Have  you  dreamed  that  Terig  scatters  the  Heruli,  and 
that  Alaran  can  hardly  be  told  from  Terig?" 

Alleda  laughed.  "  I  have  dreamed  that  Terig  and  Alaran 
both  shall  come  into  a  kingdom!" 

She  came  still  to  the  glade  by  the  church  to  be  further 
taught  of  Victorinus.  He  had  great  power  over  her;  she 
gave  him  devotion  who  had  brought  her  soul  bread.  If 
her  reason  murmured  at  aught  he  said,  she  reproached  her 
self  and  rocked  her  reason  to  sleep.  To  so  much  her  reason 
said,  "It  is  so,"  and  she  would  give  faith  to  the  rest. 
He  exalted  faith,  and  she  learned  so  to  exalt  it.  He  held  it 
above  all  virtues,  and  she  gave  her  hands,  too,  to  holding 
it  so. 

Victorinus  had  now  for  her  an  affection,  a  solicitude.  He 
found  that  she  was  too  ready  to  laugh,  too  admiring  of 
mere  light  and  sun  and  motion,  too  filled  with  earthly  life. 
"Lord,  Lord,  I  confess  to  Thee  that  my  lower  man  doth 
find  pleasure  in  her  so,  but  not  my  higher  man,  Lord!  Let 
me  teach  her  horror  of  this  world,  thought  only  of  Thy 
Heaven!  Let  me  show  her  the  blackness  of  any  here,  the 
blackness  of  woman  here,  whom  the  Tempter  first  ap 
proached,  knowing  her  weakness !  Let  me  show  her  the  filth 
and  smallness  of  her  soul,  which  yet  Thou  lovest  and  hast 
saved!  Lord,  Lord,  let  me  make  her  only,  solely,  beggar 
for  her  soul  and  the  soul  of  him  who  will  be  her  husband, 
and  the  souls  of  this  people!" 

Now  he  taught  of  the  Fall  and  Condemnation  and  of  the 
Fire  of  Hell  and  Eternal  Loss.  Nor  did  he  give  what  he 
taught  metaphysical  being,  for  here  he  erred  himself,  nor 
saw  with  any  clearness  what  his  words  figured.  But  he 
used  his  eloquence,  his  age  and  subtlety,  to  press  back 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  281 

her  mind  as  his  own  was  pressed  back,  to  erect  before 
hers  as  before  his  own  an  image  of  Consternation.  The 
Vandal  woman  paled  and  stood  transfixed.  Hell  .  .  . 
Eternal  Loss! 

Back  through  the  forest,  shouting  to  victory,  bringing 
spoil  from  the  Heruli,  came  Terig  and  Alaran  and  the 
fighting  men.  All  was  rude  joy  at  Terig  Oak,  joy  and  drink 
ing,  feasting  and  rest.  Fighting  men  crowded  into  the  hall 
or  lay  strewn  like  acorns  around  the  oak;  home  people  made 
a  surrounding  ring  or  pressed  in  and  out.  Emberic  chanted 
deep  and  strong  that  victory,  its  incidents  and  its  heroes. 
Now  one  warrior  and  now  another  shouted  corroboration, 
or  made  a  point  and  amended  the  song.  Men,  women  and 
children  held  festival.  The  priests,  coming  from  the  grove, 
claimed  sacrifice.  Terig  gave  it  from  among  the  captured 
herds  and  prisoners.  Terig  Oak  went  in  rude  procession  to 
the  grove  and  circled  the  stone  while  the  priests  slew  the 
victims,  then  returned  to  the  tree  and  the  mead-drinking. 
But  Alleda  did  not  go. 

Alleda  said  to  Alaran,  "I  will  not!" 

"If  evil  come  to  Terig  Oak  they  will  say,  'Because  one 
stayed  away.'" 

"Say  as  they  will,  I  will  not!" 

"What  reason?" 

"O  Alaran,  if  you  will  listen  I  will  tell  you  — " 

But  Alaran  was  angered  and  would  not  listen.  But  he 
stood  between  her  and  Terig.  "Let  her  be!"  he  said  to 
Terig  and  Fritha.  Alaran  had  fought  the  Heruli  like  the 
thunder  god  descending  on  that  land.  Moreover,  he  had 
planned  warfare  as  Terig  could  not  plan.  Now  he  held 
before  the  folk  their  joining  with  the  broad  stream  of  the 
Goths  and  descending  like  the  torrents  after  winter 


282  THE  WANDERERS 

upon  those  famed,  rich  lands  far  to  the  south.  Terig  and 
Terig's  men  gave  Alaran  what  he  would. 

Alleda  left  the  drinking,  feasting,  chanting,  boasting 
throng  in  Terig's  hall  and  about  the  oak.  She  left  the  war 
rior-serving,  laughing,  triumphing  women.  She  stole  to 
the  forest  and  to  the  glade  by  the  church.  "O  my  father!" 
she  cried  to  Victorinus.  "Christ  is  my  Bridegroom!  He 
is  my  All!  You  tell  me  that  to  keep  sacred  to  Christ  is  man 
or  woman's  Heaven  and  the  service  that  they  'owe !  You 
tell  me  that  the  blessed  Paul  was  right  when  he  said  that 
to  be  virgin  is  better  than  to  be  wed.  O  my  father!  There 
is  love  for  Alaran  in  my  heart,  but  now  is  there  higher  love 
for  Christ!  I  would  cleave  to  Him  and  wed  no  man — " 

" No,"  said  Victorinus.    "No!" 

Now  he  must  show  her  that  women  might  not  always 
do  as  they  would,  but  must  serve  high  purposes  which 
others  devised.  Somewhere  in  his  nature  he  stood  to  wor 
ship  the  virgin  in  her,  and  strenuously  in  Gaul  and  in  Italy 
had  he  preached  virginity  in  man  and  in  woman.  But  she 
must  wed  the  king-to-be  of  this  barbarous  people,  bring 
him  and  them  to  Christ,  give  them  a  prince  who  from  the 
cradle  should  be  Christian!  "O  God,  who  through  winding 
ways  bringest  all  to  Thee,  give  me  power  to  bind  her  to 
the  horns  of  Thy  altar — " 

He  made  her  sit  before  him,  and  through  a  summer 
afternoon  he  taught  her  her  duty  here.  As  the  sun  went 
down  red,  he  ceased.  She  stood  up,  pale,  but  with  eyes 
that  glowed  like  the  eyes  of  Victorinus.  She  raised  her 
clasped  hands,  "O  high  God,  high  and  most  sweet!  Hear 
me  swear  to  Thee,  that  I  will  bring  Tliee  Alaran  and  this 
Nation!" 

Spring  touched  summer.    Terig  sat  very  long  one  eve 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  283 

beneath  Terig  Oak,  his  back  to  the  huge  bole,  his  tankard 
of  mead  beside  him.  Fritha,  passing,  turned  aside  to  find 
out  his  dreaming.  She  touched  his  shoulder,  then  his  brow, 
she  looked  closely,  she  laid  hands  over  his  heart.  Then  she 
cried  loudly.  "Terig!  Terig !  — Alaran!" 

Terig  was  dead.  All  the  Goths  moaned  greatly  for  him. 
They  came  from  clearings  far  away,  they  filled  the  dark 
forest  with  chants  of  sorrow.  The  bards  strung  the  strings 
of  their  rude  harps,  they  sang  Terig's  might  and  his  glory 
and  the  might  of  dark  Death.  The  priests  of  the  grove 
played  their  part.  A  great  pyre  was  built  for  Terig,  at 
dusk  it  was  kindled.  All  night  the  flames  reddened  the  sur 
rounding  wood.  Men  and  women  circled  the  heap  with 
cries  and  invocations. 

Daybreak  came,  and  the  flames  were  gone,  and  the  em 
bers  dying  to  ash.  The  fighting  men  raised  upon  their 
shields  Alaran,  son  of  Terig.  They  bore  him  so  around 
Terig  Oak.  They  dashed  upon  the  tree  mead  and  water 
and  called  it  Alaran  Oak.  They  seated  Alaran  in  Terig's 
chair,  and  for  him  clashed  their  shields  and  shook  their 
spears.  Men  and  women  blended  their  voices  in  the  shout 
ing.  Alaran  was  king  of  these  Goths  in  Terig's  stead. 

Alaran  was  tall  and  broad  of  shoulder,  yellow-haired, 
with  yellow  hair  upon  his  upper  lip,  with  sky-blue  eyes. 
When  the  shouting  came  to  an  end,  he  stood,  and,  spear  in 
hand,  promised  to  be  as  Terig.  One  week  the  folk  feasted 
at  Terig  Oak. 

Alaran  and  Alleda  'met  by  the  riverside,  over  them' wil 
lows  and  poplars,  before  them  the  wide  stream.  "Now 
I  will  that  we  wed,"  said  Alaran,  "when  the  wheat  is  ripe, 
at  the  midsummer  feast!" 

"I  will  so,  too!" 


a84  THE   WANDERERS 

"You  are  fairer  than  ever  you  were,"  said  Alaran.  "You 
stand  in  my  heart,  and  it  is  bright  flame  and  bright  flowers 
around  you!" 

"As  wheat  and  vines  and  rivers  is  my  love  for  you  and  it 
has  always  been  so!  ...  But  we  must  travel  on,  though 
we  carry  love  in  our  arms  —  like  a  child,  like  a  child!" 

The  grain  ripened,  the  year  came  to  midsummer.  Men 
and  women  gathered  to  the  marriage  of  the  chief  of  these 
Goths  and  Alleda  the  Vandal.  There  came  also,  many 
leagues  through  the  forest,  chief  men  and  bards  of  the 
Vandals. 

Alleda  came  to  the  glade  and  spoke  with  Victorinus. 
"They  talk  around  the  oak  of  joining  with  other  Goths  and 
pouring  south  against  your  country!" 

"The  City  of  God  is  my  country,"  said  Victorinus. 
"Our  country-love  is  to  bring  souls  to  Christ." 

"The  priests  of  the  grove  come  to  Alaran  and  persuade 
him  to  thrust  out  you  and  the  ten  brethren,  and  to  tear 
down  the  church!" 

"Wed  him,  besiege  him  with  your  spirit,  win,  and  this 
little  church  shall  give  place  to  a  great  church,  all  this 
people  hewing  and  building!  But  for  me,  have  I  not  longed, 
O  my  Lord  and  God,  to  be  counted  among  Thy  martyrs?" 

She  came  again  after  three  days.  Her  eyes  shone.  "Ala- 
ran  has  pledged  me  that  no  harm  shall  come  to  you  and 
the  brethren,  nor  to  my  lovely  church!" 

"When  thou  art  queen,  child,  thou  shalt  win  him!  He 
is  further  on  the  way  than  was  Terig." 

She  sat  at  his  feet.  "O  my  father,  tell  me  of  wedded 
life  in  the  land  that  Christ  trod,  and  the  lands  where  His 
Church  grows!  Although  virginity  be  the  highest,  still 
even  the  other  must  be  more  beautiful  there  than  here." 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  285 

Victorinus  kept  silence  for  a  little,  pondering  what  he 
should  say  to  this  barbarian  girl  whom  he  had  brought  to 
Christ,  for  whom  he  felt  affection,  from  whom  he  hoped 
nothing  less  than  action  that  should  turn  forest  thousands 
into  Christians. 

He  thought  it  was  more  beautiful  there  than  here.  Here 
was  a  rude  equality,  a  practical  freedom  of  woman,  step 
ping  by  the  side  of  man,  that  grated  harshly  upon  all  his 
sensibilities.  He  never  denied  that  the  soul  of  woman  was 
as  valuable  as  the  soul  of  man.  That  came  from  Christ; 
it  must  be;  it  was  taken  so.  But  Christ  had  been  about 
the  business  of  the  City  of  God,  and  had  given  to  Caesar 
that  which  was  Caesar's.  Christ,  saying  naught  of  the 
matter,  had  therefore  let  rest  with  man,  so  long  as  man 
was  upon  this  earth,  man's  authority  over  woman.  That 
was  man's  due  since  he  was  God's  creature  and  woman 
but  drawn  from  him  in  his  sleep,  his  dream,  as  it  were; 
man's  due  since  Eve  had  sinned  and  tempted  Adam,  and 
God  had  said,  Thy  desire  shall  be  to  thy  husband,  and  he 
shall  rule  over  thee!  Christ  had  let  that  rest.  As  was  fit 
ting!  said  underneath  the  breath  a  man  within  Victorinus. 
Where  Christ  had  said  naught,  Paul  had  affirmed.  Yea! 
let  it  rest.  It  is  as  it  should  be!  in  effect  had  said  Paul.  — 
Victorinus's  mind  dwelled  upon  the  Jewish  scriptures,  and 
saw  that  all  through  it  has  been  as  it  should  be. 

His  mind  returned  to  that  Pagan  life  into  which  he  had 
been  born,  which  had  flowed  about  him,  which  yet  flowed. 
That  Pagan  life  was  in  the  power  of  daemons  —  Jove, 
Apollo,  Mercury,  all  daemons !  But  even  in  that  life  God 
guided  some  things  underneath,  as  it  were  through  hidden 
ways.  Splintered  notions  must  have  come,  down  brought 
from  Eden  and  Noah's  time  and  Father  Abraham,  whirled 


286  THE   WANDERERS 

across  in  some  wind  to  Greece  and  Italy.  Even  there 
existed  some  fitnesses  in  common  life  that  the  daemons 
had  not  blasted.  The  subordination  of  woman  in  all  places 
where  the  governing  word  must  fall  —  that  had  come  by 
the  breath  of  God!  Even  in  paganry  the  female  daemons 
weighed  less,  ruled  in  lower  places  than  the  male.  Even  the 
daemons  could  not  overturn  the  Eden  word. 

Victorinus's  imagination  touched  and  tasted  all  the  sweet 
humilities  that  in  ages  Eve  had  put  on.  He  loved  them  in 
her;  familiar  they  were  and  dear!  This  barbarous  people 
in  their  northern  clime,  kept  by  daemons  huge,  uncouth  and 
dark,  were  even  further  than  the  old  Pagan  world  from 
the  Eden  wind.  Naught  in  them  so  honestly  shocked,  so 
scandalized  him,  as  did  that  freedom  in  forest  and  field 
and  house  of  the  barbarian  women.  Hardly  might  it  be 
said  that  they  did  not  war;  ofttimes  he  heard  of  them  going 
in  number  with  the  men.  That  was  barbarous,  abhorrent! 
They  were  not  now  found  among  the  priests,  though  it 
was  said  that  it  had  been  so.  But  there  were  prophetesses 
among  them,  greatly  listened  to.  That  might  pass;  it  had 
been  so  in  Bible  land  and  other  lands;  so  that  they  were 
curbed,  and  man  ruled  in  the  Church!  But  in  these  forests 
they  gave  their  word  in  council;  they  with  the  men  chose 
policies,  laws  and  rulers.  Victorinus's  mind  recoiled  vio 
lently.  And  outdoors  and  within  they  spoke  freely  as 
did  the  men;  they  held  their  own;  they  would  or  they 
would  not!  A  king  might  rule  men  and  women,  though 
no  further  than  they  would;  the  priest  of  the  grove  might 
chain  men  and  women  with  the  daemon's  chain;  the  old 
might  claim  reverence  from  the  young.  But  man  as  man 
was  not  ruler,  nor  was  woman  as  woman  ruled. 

Victorinus  liked  best  the  way  to  which  he  was  used, 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  287 

liked  it  perhaps  not  wholly  alone  because  he  was  used  to  it. 
Because  he  liked  it  best  he  truly  thought  it  more  beautiful. 
These  forest  ways  were  but  more  daemon  ways  for  entrap 
ping  souls!  Pride  was  a  horrible  evil,  and  pride  in  woman 
most  horrible.  .  .  .  He  thought  of  his  mother  and  sisters 
and  all  his  women  kindred,  and  their  gentle  virtues.  In 
memory  their  ways  caressed  him,  soothing,  pleasing  him. 
Man  needed  contrast,  foil.  .  .  . 

By  now  he  had  for  Alleda  a  fatherly  solicitude,  affection. 
She  was  his  convert,  the  soul  saved  —  and  the  dedicated 
means  to  great  ends.  He  thought  now,  sitting  here  ponder 
ing  the  matter,  that  he  would  make  that  which  he  had 
wrought  as  perfect  as  he  could.  He  would  plant  Christ  in 
the  centre,  and  around  flowers  that  should  be  of  that  Gar 
dener's  garden  —  flowers  of  faith,  humility  and  obedience. 
He  would  plant  them  in  all  the  ways,  earthly  and  heavenly, 
so  that  nowhere  should  the  daemons  be  able  to  approach, 
because  the  flowers'  beauty  and  fragrance  should  drive 
them  back.  In  all  the  alleys  of  pride  he  would  plant  them. 

His  mind  had  over-travelled  all  this  in  much  less  time 
than  it  has  taken  to  tell. 

Alleda  sat  beneath  a  green  and  spreading  beech,  and 
before  her  across  the  glade  rose  the  little  church,  and  the 
house  of  the  Christians  and  the  garden  that  they  worked 
in.  She  was  nineteen.  Her  knees  were  bent,  her  head  was 
bowed  to  the  great  and  flowering  Presence  in  her  heart. 
She  was  not  now  inclined  to  look  aside  at  things  brought 
forward  to  see  if  they  truly  glowed  and  warmed  in  that 
Presence,  or  if  the  Presence  extended  not  to  them  its 
mantle  of  light.  She  was  in  an  attitude  to  take  them  on 
authority,  and  she  was  not  perfected  in  disentangling  au 
thorities. 


288  THE  WANDERERS 

" Hearken  to  me,  maiden,"  said  Victorinus,  "and  though 
I  preach  the  right  abasement  of  woman,  doubt  not  that  I 
love  you  and  that  Christ  loves  you!  ...  I  would  tell  you, 
if  I  may  find  the  tongue  wherewith  to  praise  her,  of  a  Chris 
tian  woman  with  whom  I  had  acquaintance  one  time  in 
Milan,  the  mother  of  a  man,  who,  when  he  has  unravelled 
wholly  the  tissue  of  his  own  errors,  may  gain  a  great  name 
in  the  Church  of  the  Living  God.  No  saintlier  might  you 
have  found  than  this  Monica,  nor  no  purer  example  to  all 
women!  I  have  heard  another  woman  and  a  wife  say  that 
Monica,  advising  many  wives  together  one  day,  did  say 
this  to  them.  'From  that  time  when  you  have  heard  read 
to  you  the  marriage  writings,  do  you  hold  them,  accord 
ing  to  God's  will,  as  indentures  whereby  you  are  made 
servants,  and  so,  keeping  in  memory  your  condition,  do 
you  in  no  place  nor  time  set  yourself  in  opposition  to  your 
husband.  Only/  she  said  on,  'in  so  doing,  you  must  in  no 
wise  betray  nor  slackly  serve  Christ,  who  is  your  Master 
over  your  master.'  —  Truly,  child,  the  Church  could  have 
said  no  different  nor  better!" 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  the  barbarian  woman.  "  Yet 
there  is  something  that  comes  up  in  my  mind  — " 

She  sat  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  her  chin  in  her 
hands,  her  eyes  upon  the  earth. 

Victorinus  watched  her  somewhat  uneasily.  Presently 
he  began  to  speak  of  the  just  virtues  of  women,  and  he 
spoke  in  gold  and  honey.  "More  and  more,"  he  said, 
"you  the  barbarians  and  we  the  civilized  will  touch  and 
clasp  and  mingle.  Never  too  soon  can  right  notions  steal 
among  you  — " 

He  was  not  sure  that  Alleda  was  listening.  She  seemed 
sunk  in  herself.  "Child!"  he  said  sharply. 


ALLEDA  AND  ALARAN  289 

She  dropped  her  hands  at  his  tone,  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  smiling.  "Is  Alaran  better  than  me?  Christ  is  better. 
But  is  Alaran?  I  think  that  we  are  the  same.  Why, 
then—" 

Iron  came  into  Victorinus's  voice.  "Will  you  deny 
Scripture  and  set  your  reason  against  Almighty  God's  — " 

The  forest  murmured,  the  white  clouds  sailed  overhead, 
thistledown  in  the  air,  and  the  air  thistledown  in  the  ether. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  glade,  taking  and  holding  the  human 
eye,  stood  the  little  church,  and  from  the  garden  beside 
came  the  sound  of  the  brethren  at  work. 

Midsummer  was  here,  and  Alleda  and  Alaran  were  wed. 
Autumn  came,  winter  followed,  spring  swept  in  song  and 
colour  over  the  land. 

"You  believe  —  you  believe!"  said  Alleda. 

"Almost  I  believe,"  answered  Alaran.  "But  I  will  not 
hasten.  There  is  much  to  think  of." 

The  days  grew  long  and  warm.  When  the  wheat  had 
begun  to  ripen  birth-pangs  took  Alleda.  As  a  rule  bar 
barian  women  gave  birth  easily,  but  here  was  some  dif 
ference.  Alleda  lay  in  anguish,  and  the  sun  sank  and 
rose  again  and  sank  and  the  babe  was  not  born.  Fritha 
and  the  wise  women  wrought,  but  nothing  was  of  avail. 
Through  and  around  Alaran  Oak  a  silence  held  save  when 
Alleda  cried  out. 

"Naught  answers.    She  will  die!"  said  Fritha. 

Alaran  ran  through  the  moonlighted  forest  to  the  lodge 
of  the  Christian  men.  "Victorinus!  Victorinus!" 

The  moonbeams,  streaming  through  the  open  door  and 
window,  flooded  the  church.  Victorinus  was  kneeling  there. 
"Is  she  lightened?  Is  the  babe  born?" 


290  THE  WANDERERS 

"You  had  one  with  you  who  healed  Terig's  wound — " 

"Alas!    It  was  Probus  who  died  in  the  winter  — " 

"She  will  die.  They  all  say  it.  —  Roman!  She  says  that 
you  have  a  great  god.  Beg  your  god  to  make  her  live!  If 
she  lives  I  will  turn  Christian  —  I  and  Alaran  Oak  and 
all  the  Goths  by  the  river."  He  broke  away.  Victorinus 
heard  him  brush  the  trees  as  he  went. 

All  night  Victorinus  lay  before  the  altar  and  prayed. 
"O  God,  God,  this  people!  Now  is  the  day  for  them  to 
come.  O  Lord  Jesus,  will  it  not  please  Thee  to  draw  them 
to  Thee  through  every  forest  aisle,  to  see  them  around 
Thy  building  here  like  the  blades  of  grass  for  number? 
O  sweet  Jesus!  and  this  little  stream  that  runs  hard  by 
for  the  water  of  baptism.  .  .  .  And  the  woman  herself, 
Lord—  " 

The  dawn  turned  the  sky  red  behind  Alaran  Oak.  In 
tree  and  bush  the  bird  began  to  sing  to  the  bird  on  the 
nest.  The  mist  rose  like  a  ghost  from  the  river.  Alleda 
gave  a  great  cry,  then  lay  still.  .  .  .  Voices  of  women 
arose,  rejoicing. 

Fritha  went  to  Alaran  crouched  by  the  hearth.  "The 
babe  is  born!" 

"Will  she  live?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

Victorinus  took  his  staff  and  with  two  brethren  behind 
him  went  to  Alaran  Oak. 

At  the  edge  of  the  forest  Alaran  met  him.  "She  lives! 
She  lives!  She  and  the  babe  live!" 

Victorinus  lifted  his  staff.  The  morning  light  struck  upon 
the  cross  atop.  "Christ  gave  the  boon!  Pay,  O  barbarian, 
the  debt  thou  owest!" 

Alleda  came  out  of  the  hut  of  Death  and  lay  breathing 


ALLEDA  AND  ALAR  AN  291 

the  air  of  every  day,  the  babe  beside  her,  in  the  hollow  of 
her  arm.  Alaran  sat  by  the  couch  spread  with  coarse 
linen  of  the  women's  spinning.  Her  eyes  sought  his.  He 
put  his  yellow  head  down  beside  her.  "Yes,  yes.  We  are 
going  to  be  Christians  together  1" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    HERMITS 

"SALVATION  is  within  you.  The  Kingdom  of  God  is 
within  you."  Dorotheus,  hermit  in  the  desert,  kneeling  in 
his  cave  mouth  from  two  hours  past  midnight  to  sunrise, 
said  that  five  thousand  times,  said  it  at  last  with  an  even 
sound  like  the  clacking  of  a  mill,  the  droning  of  bees  or 
the  voice  of  locusts.  The  east  grew  rosy,  the  sand  ridges 
translucent,  marvellously  hued;  up  rushed  the  fiery  sun. 
Dorotheus  rose  from  his  knees,  took  the  scourge  and  plied  it. 
Having  done  that,  he  next  soberly  got  breakfast  —  a  hand 
ful  of  dates,  a  small  piece  of  bread  broken  from  a  long, 
twisted  loaf,  gift  of  the  last  pilgrim  making  round  of  the 
anchorites  scattered  in  the  desert,  a  measure  of  water  from 
the  jar  in  the  corner.  As  he  ate  he  looked  across  the  inter 
vening  sand  to  the  very  small  oasis  where  he  cultivated  a 
garden.  The  palms  moved  in  the  morning  wind,  tufts  of 
green  feathers  cutting  the  absolute  blue.  It  seemed  the  only 
motion  in  the  world,  unless  it  were  the  moving,  too,  of 
scant  tufts  of  desert  grass  immediately  about  this  cave 
that  was  no  true  cave  but  one  of  many  ancient  excavations, 
made,  God  knew  how  long  ago,  by  idolatrous  Pharaohs, 
building  tombs  to  their  own  reproach! 

The  oasis  was  uninhabited  save  by  a  few  birds  and  some 
small  and  wary  four-footed  and  creeping  life.  There  now 
came  from  it,  having  done  his  own  foraging  through  the 
night,  the  jackal  that  Dorotheus  had  found,  wounded  and 
separated  from  the  pack,  and  had  tamed,  naming  it  Aria 


THE   HERMITS  293 

after  his  birthplace  on  the  Danube.  Aria  trotted  across 
the  sand,  rubbed  himself  like  a  dog  against  his  master, 
wagged  his  tail,  was  talked  with,  and  at  last  went  off  to  the 
depth  of  the  cave,  to  lie  there  out  of  heat  and  light  and 
sleep  until  the  pleasant  dusk  came  again.  Dorotheus  un 
covered  with  reverence,  took  from  its  shelf  with  clean 
hands  the  Book  of  the  Gospels  which  was  the  cave's  precious 
possession,  took,  and  kneeling  read  the  parable  of  the  wheat 
and  the  tares.  When  it  was  done,  he  prayed,  stretched  flat 
before  a  great  wooden  cross  fastened  to  the  cave  wall.  That 
also  done,  he  rose,  took  up  the  palm  mat  that  he  was 
weaving,  and  with  a  heap  of  palm  fronds  beside  him,  sat 
again  in  the  opening  of  the  cave. 

This  time  he  faced  from  the  oasis  to  the  wider  spread  of 
the  desert,  two  leagues  of  sand  waves  between  him  and 
the  monastery  in  whose  laura,  or  circle  of  hermitages,  this 
cavern  was  numbered.  He  with  other  anchorites  wove 
palm  mats  and  baskets.  At  intervals  came  monks,  gather 
ing  up  what  was  done  and  taking  to  the  monastery,  whence 
all  were  sent  in  trade  to  the  nearest  city.  Dorotheus's 
fingers,  that  at  first  had  been  unskilful  at  the  work,  moved 
now  with  the  precisest  ease.  Born  thirty-six  years  before 
upon  the  Danube,  of  Christian  parents,  educated  in  Italy, 
in  Verona,  a  soldier  under  Odoacer,  King  of  Italy,  left  for 
dead  on  the  field  of  Soissons,  captive  among  the  Franks, 
maker  of  a  daring  escape,  wanderer  in  Spain,  recipient 
one  night  of  a  dazzling  vision,  turning  to  the  Church,  cat 
echumen,  baptized,  crossing  to  Africa,  wanderer  there 
through  dangers  and  strange  adventures,  monk  at  last  and 
ascetic  —  he  had  now  woven  palm  mats  for  six  years,  woven 
palm  mats  and  made  his  garden  and  walked  the  desert  up 
and  down. 


294  THE  WANDERERS 

Fast  and  vigil  and  discipline  had  made  him  lean  but 
not  emaciated,  deep-eyed  but  not  dim-eyed.  In  the  des 
ert  were  all  manner  of  hermits,  and  some  lived  but  to 
torture  themselves,  and  some  through  long  disuse  of 
mind  were  nigh  mindless.  There  were  others  who  were 
"moderates."  Dorotheus  was  of  these.  The  greater  repu 
tation  clung  to  the  self- torturers,  the  chained  to  rocks,  the 
unsleeping,  uneating,  the  ever-scourging,  the  sealed-eyes, 
the  drawers-back  from  water.  To  most  in  this  time  these 
seemed  the  more  saintly.  They  were  the  great  seers  of 
visions,  hearers  of  voices,  wrestlers  with  daemons,  work 
ers  of  miracles. 

Perhaps  Dorotheus,  too,  aspired  to  saintship,  but  found 
it  not  wholly  upon  that  road.  Ascetic,  he  yet  rested 
human.  He  abode  in  the  desert,  a  man  of  strong  frame, 
tawny-haired,  supple-fingered,  with  a  working  and  a  quest 
ing  mind  and  a  soul  that  was  learning  itself.  For  a  long 
time  he  had  had  a  life  of  outward  adventure;  now  he 
was  adventuring  inward. 

The  sun  rode  high,  the  desert  swam  in  heat.  The  sun 
went  to  the  west.  Dorotheus  put  by  the  mat,  ate  again 
sparingly  of  the  bread  and  dates,  drank  of  the  water,  then 
taking  a  hoe  that  he  had  fashioned  for  himself  crossed  the 
glaring  sand  to  the  oasis. 

Here  was  neither  heat  nor  glare,  but  shade  rich  and 
sweet,  shade,  and  cool  sliding  water,  and  upon  the  side 
opposed  to  his  cave  the  little  garden  like  a  sliver  of  Para 
dise,  that  he  had  made  for  the  love  of  making.  Dorotheus 
applied  himself  to  hoeing  the  earth  about  the  roots  of 
vines  which  he  had  procured  from  the  monastery  vine 
yard.  The  grapes  hung  down,  green  yet,  but  when  they 
were  ripe  he  did  not  propose  to  eat  them,  nor  yet  to  press 


THE   HERMITS  295 

wine  from  them.  The  birds  would  eat  them,  the  birds  and 
Aria  the  jackal. 

Looking  east,  between  the  palm  stems,  he  saw  the  desert 
waves,  low  and  high,  like  coloured,  solidified  water,  saw 
his  own  cave  and  the  expanse  beyond,  and  far  on  the  hori 
zon  a  smudge  which  would  be  the  palms  of  the  great  oasis 
that  held  the  monastery.  When  in  his  hoeing  he  turned, 
there  rose  before  him,  back  wall  to  his  garden,  a  small 
forest  of  palms  with  other  trees  and  shrubs  and  linking 
creepers.  You  could  not  see  far  into  it:  almost  at  once 
a  green  gloom  shut  down.  For  reasons  he  had  never 
pierced  it. 

It  might  be  a  quarter-mile  through  to  the  western  edge 
of  the  oasis,  and  to  the  desert  waves  on  that  side,  low  and 
high,  like  coloured,  solidified  water.  And  thence  it  might 
be  two  leagues  and  more  to  the  palms  and  the  springs  in 
the  desert  where  was  builded  the  convent  village  of  St. 
Agatha,  dwelled  in  by  a  thousand  nuns.  And  the  laura 
of  St.  Agatha,  the  circle  of  her  women  anchorites,  swing 
ing  out  into  the  desert,  touched  at  its  far  eastern  point, 
as  the  laura  of  the  monastery,  swinging  into  the  desert, 
touched  at  its  far  western  point,  the  little  oasis  and  those 
ridges  of  desert  stone,  long  since  dug  into  by  vanished 
kings.  And  eastward  from  the  green  islet  the  hermit 
Dorotheus  had  his  cave,  and  westward  from  it  the  hermit 
Dorothea  had  hers.  Between  them  was  the  oasis,  and  each 
made  a  garden  upon  the  edge  facing  his  or  her  cavern. 
And  between  the  gardens  was  the  quarter-mile  of  thickly 
growing  palms  and  other  trees,  of  green  gloom  and  netting 
creepers,  and  no  track  across,  made  by  nature,  or  by  man 
or  woman.  The  quarter-mile  might  as  well  have  been  the 
diameter  of  the  globe. 


296  THE   WANDERERS 

But  not  quite  so.  Each  hermit,  wandering  in  the  desert 
that  swept  around  the  watered  hand's-breadth,  had  taken 
the  other's  presence  in  gleams  and  intimations.  Perhaps 
each  had  seen  the  other  afar;  perhaps  from  some  sand  crest 
each  had  marked  the  other  digging  in  a  garden.  Perhaps 
through  the  wilderness  between  had  come  perceptions  of 
human  neighbourhood.  Each  had  knowledge  that  two 
hermitages  bordered  this  green  spot  in  the  desert  —  his  own 
and  a  woman's,  her  own  and  a  man's.  Perhaps  other 
threads  of  light,  quiverings,  vibrations,  travelled  to  and  fro 
by  roads  beneath  and  above  all  usual  consciousness.  But 
there  was  no  such  contact  as  is  customary  between  neigh 
bours  pledged  to  one  mode  of  life,  and  dwelling  but  a 
quarter-mile  apart,  no  friendly  passing  of  the  time  of  day, 
no  exchange  of  the  fruits  of  the  garden,  no  deeper  con 
verse  and  gifts  of  ideas.  There  was  no  close  contact,  no 
near  vision  nor  speech  together  at  all. 

The  two,  man  and  woman,  dwelled  in  caves  beside 
fruit  trees  and  cool  water,  and  were  weavers  of  palm  mats 
and  makers  of  gardens  by  virtue  of  being  "moderates"  — 
rather,  in  the  eyes  of  the  sixth  century,  a  deplorable  weak 
ness  than  any  virtue!  Your  true  ascetic  from  the  bone  out 
ward,  your  unadulterate  hermit-saint,  your  anchorite  with 
never  a  Laodicean  smirch,  abhorred  oases!  —  These  two, 
monk  and  nun,  were,  then,  "moderates."  Nevertheless, 
for  the  man  to  have  gazed,  free-willed,  upon  the  woman, 
and  for  the  woman  to  have  gazed,  free-willed,  upon  the 
man,  and  for  the  two  to  have  stood  and  talked,  that  by 
either,  pledged  to  God,  and  walking  the  sixth  century, 
would  have  been  taken  to  slant  toward  the  unpardonable 
sin. 

Dorotheus  hoed  the  earth  around  his  vines,  and  then  he 


THE  HERMITS  297 

tended  orange  trees,  citron  and  pomegranate.  The  sun 
rode  low,  and  the  palms  cast  hugely  long  shadows.  The 
sun  touched  the  horizon,  and  the  sand  turned  into  rose- 
coloured  glass.  Aria  the  jackal  came  out  of  his  den, 
stretched  and  shook  himself,  then  trotted  over  the  sand  to 
the  water,  slipping  beneath  the  trees.  Dorotheus,  too, 
kneeled  by  the  water  and  drank.  Then  he  shouldered  his 
hoe  and  he  and  the  jackal  went  up  the  sand  slope  to  the 
cave.  As  they  went  they  heard  distantly  the  bell  that 
was  fastened  about  the  neck  of  the  goat  that  had  followed 
the  hermit  Dorothea  from  St.  Agatha.  And  at  the  turn 
of  the  night,  when  he  waked,  he  heard  through  the  thin, 
desert  air,  the  crowing  of  a  cock  which  she  had  bought 
with  palm  baskets  from  some  desert  vagrant. 

The  day  of  Dorothea  had  been  much  like  the  day  of 
Dorotheus.  Details  might  differ,  but  essentials  did  not. 
Before  cockcrow  she  kneeled  upon  the  sand  before  the  cave, 
she,  lay  upon  her  face  and  prayed.  "Salvation  is  f  rom  with 
in.  ...  The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within  you.  .  .  .  O  God,  let 
the  Kingdom  dawn!"  prayed  Dorothea.  When  she  rose 
the  east  was  a  pearl,  and  all  the  desert  sand  a  pearl,  and  the 
trees  of  the  oasis  grey  pearl  above  a  rope  of  mist.  She  took 
the  scourge  of  cords  and  used  it,  laid  it  by  and  prayed 
again,  "O  God,  the  long  pilgrimage  through  the  desert!  — 
O  God,  let  me  lift  and  cleave  to  Thee ! "  Sunrise  brightened 
the  sand,  gave  its  poised  waves  a  thousand  hues,  then  up 
came  the  red  globe,  and  the  day,  or  short  or  long,  was  here. 
Dorothea  got  her  breakfast  —  a  few  raisins,  a  little  bread, 
a  measure  of  water  from  the  jar  in  the  corner.  Across  the 
sand,  at  the  edge  of  the  oasis,  the  goat  Even  I  cropped  its 
meal,  and  the  cock  Welcome  strutted  and  clapped  its 
wings.  Dorothea  was  so  "moderate"  that  she  smiled  to 


298  THE   WANDERERS 

see  them  both.  Likewise  her  moderation  was  such  that 
both  the  cave  and  she  herself  were  clean. 

The  nun  as  well  as  the  monk  had  a  Book  of  the  Gospels, 
the  Acts  and  the  Epistles.  Her  cell,  as  his  cell,  had  fastened 
to  the  wall  a  great  wooden  cross.  Dorothea,  standing  be 
fore  the  sloping  shelf  upon  which  it  was  laid,  read  the 
first  pages  of  the  Gospel  of  Saint  John,  then  stretched  her 
self  upon  the  rocky  floor  before  the  cross.  "In  the  be 
ginning.  .  .  .  O  Light  that  shineth  in  darkness  — " 

She,  also,  wove  palm  mats  and  baskets;  she,  also,  across 
the  sand,  at  the  edge  of  the  oasis  that  faced  her  cell,  made 
a  garden.  Her  morning  rites  performed,  she  crossed  the 
glaring  sand  to  the  shadow  of  the  palms.  She  wished 
water  to  reach  a  spot  that  was  more  arid  than  it  should  be, 
and  she  dug  with  a  spade,  which  she  had  begged  from  the 
convent,  a  canal  through  which  it  might  flow.  She  worked 
with  strength  and  expertness  where  at  first  she  had  worked 
weakly  and  unskilfully.  Practice  in  digging,  as  in  other 
things,  was  like  a  waking  memory.  .  .  . 

This  was  her  birthday.  She  was  thirty-four  years  old.  . .  . 
She  saw  the  house  in  Alexandria  in  which  she  was  born, 
and  the  wealthy  Claudius,  her  father,  vaunting  his  marble 
statues,  his  gems,  and  his  descent  from  Vigilius  and  Eu- 
docia,  martyred  in  Rome  three  hundred  years  ago,  and  her 
mother  Verina,  a  fair-haired,  silent  woman,  born  across  the 
middle  sea,  of  a  Roman  father  and  a  barbarian  mother, 
and  the  nurse  Anna  with  her  endless  story-telling,  merry 
and  sad,  and  other  house  slaves  for  whom  she  felt  fond 
ness,  and  her  teachers  Sylvanus  and  old  Hipparchus. 

Upon  her  knees  she  took  out  the  black  earth  with  her  hands 
and  heaped  it  in  a  wide  basket.  The  cock  Welcome  pecked 
after  her,  and  the  bell  of  Even  I  made  not  far  away  a 


THE  HERMITS  299 

rhythmic  sound.  .  .  .  All  her  old,  Alexandrian,  gay  com 
panions  when  she  passed  from  the  schoolroom  to  the 
world.  Alexandrian  life  —  Alexandrian  life.  .  .  .  The 
daughter  of  Claudius  —  the  daughter  of  Claudius.  .  .  . 

The  trench  that  she  was  making  was  growing  deeper. 
She  worked  with  strong,  sweeping,  ordered  movements. 
Behind  her  stood  the  thickly  growing  palms  and  netting 
vines  of  that  undisturbed  belt  between  her  garden  and 
the  garden  of  the  hermit  Dorotheus.  .  .  .  She  found  that 
without  conscious  thought  she  had  turned  so  that  the  bar 
rier  wood  was  before  her.  She  was  sitting  back  upon  her 
heels,  the  spade  lying  idle  beside  her,  and  she  was  gazing 
through  the  wood.  What  was  a  quarter-mile  of  tree- 
thronged  space?  .  .  .  The  daughter  of  Claudius  —  the 
daughter  of  Claudius.  .  .  . 

She  sprang  to  her  feet,  left  the  garden  and  went  back  to 
the  cave.  She  opened  again  the  book  upon  its  shelf  and 
read,  "  The  night  is  far  spent,  the  day  is  at  hand.  Let  us  there 
fore  cast  off  the  works  of  darkness,  and  let  us  put  on  the  armour 
of  light.  Let  us  walk  honestly,  as  in  the  day,  not  in  rioting  and 
drunkenness,  not  in  chambering  and  wantonness,  not  in  strife 
and  envying.  But  put  ye  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  and  make 
not  provision  for  the  flesh,  to  fulfil  the  lusts  thereof."  She 
closed  the  book,  took  the  basket  she  was  weaving  and  sat 
with  it  in  the  cave  mouth.  Alexandria  .  .  .  and  all  the 
crises  of  her  life  there  —  Claudius's  daughter  —  Claudius's 
daughter!  She  wove  the  palm  shreds  in  and  out.  Her  fin 
gers  had  been  trained  in  fine  work  and  upon  the  lute  — 
she  wove  the  basket  very  skilfully.  Perhaps,  in  practising, 
she  remembered,  too,  how  one  made  baskets.  At  any  rate, 
now  she  had  been  digging  in  the  earth  of  this  oasis,  now  she 
had  been  making  palm  baskets,  now  she  had  fasted,  watched 


300  THE  WANDERERS 

and  prayed,  hermit  in  this  cave,  for  four  torrid  summers 
and  four  winters  of  balm.  Thirty-four  to-day.  "Lord, 
Lord,  let  me  not  think  of  me  and  my  years  — " 

At  sunset  she  heard  the  jackal  bark.  Had  she  not  heard 
it  she  would  have  been  startled,  so  much  was  its  voice 
a  part  of  this  disk  of  earth  she  lived  upon.  She  expected  it 
as  Dorotheus,  on  the  other  side  of  the  oasis,  listened  for 
the  bell  of  Even  I  and  the  crowing  of  the  cock  Welcome. 
He  did  not  know  their  names,  nor  she  that  the  jackal  was 
named  Aria.  From  pilgrims  going  the  round  of  the  desert 
anchorites  each  had  gained  knowledge  that  the  oasis  stood 
between  the  cells  of  the  hermit  Dorothea  and  the  hermit 
Dorotheus.  Each  knew  that  the  other  was  "moderate," 
not  bitterly,  keenly,  marvellously  ascetic.  Each  knew  how 
he  —  how  she  —  disappointed  the  pilgrims. 

Night  in  the  desert  was  a  lovely  thing.  The  daughter  of 
Claudius  lay  and  admired  —  the  daughter  of  Verina  gave 
mystic  meanings  to  the  large  bright  stars  and  the  ebony  and 
ivory  of  the  sand  —  the  nursling  of  Anna  heard  the  palm 
tops  telling  stories  —  the  pupil  of  old  Hipparchus  heard 
again  read  Plotinus  and  Porphyry — the  Christian  nun 
thought,  "If  it  were  healed  how  lovely  were  the  world!" 
She  slept,  till  Welcome  waked  her  with  his  crowing. 

However  rapidly  might  move  the  hermit's  inner  world, 
however  packed  and  thronged  the  spiritual  time,  out 
wardly  one  desert  hour,  one  desert  day,  was  highly  like 
another.  Nor  did  the  inner  world  move  always  swiftly, 
smoothly,  and  into  spiritual  time  came  dry  seasons.  The 
desert  disease  was  listlessness,  attacking  body  and  mind, 
listlessness,  and  strange  spells  of  homesickness  and  of  crav 
ing  for  red  pottage.  .  .  .  The  regimen  for  that  was  the 
scourge  and  prayer. 


THE  HERMITS  301 

Dorotheus  thought  that  what  came  upon  him  was  that 
listlessness.  He  had  known  it  before,  and  the  homesickness 
and  the  craving  for  red  pottage,  known  them  and  valor- 
ously  fought  them,  as  witnessed  scars  upon  his  shoulders  no 
less  than  strong  wrestlings  in  prayer  stored  up  —  some 
where.  These  moods  did  not  come  so  often  now,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  fight  them  when  they  came.  But  this  time,  do 
what  he  would,  the  listlessness  clung.  Moreover,  he  began 
to  see  daemons.  He  forced  himself  to  work  in  the  garden, 
though  his  arms  trembled,  and  the  palm  trees  seemed  to 
be  walking  to  and  fro.  Then  came  common  sense  in  a  flash. 
"And  I  have  seen  soldiers  by  the  hundred  take  fever  — !" 
But  immediately  upon  that  he  merely  saw  and  heard 
daemons  again;  moreover,  he  grew  heated  and  began  to 
break  down  the  vines  and  the  bushes,  "do  nothing"  having 
given  place  to  "do  everything."  He  would  carry  the  palm 
grove  up  to  the  cave,  then  there  would  be  no  hot  sand  to 
cross ! 

Dorothea  studied  the  four  Gospels  and  prayed,  stretched 
before  the  cross.  She  worked  at  basket-making,  and  fin 
ished  the  ditch  in  the  garden  that  carried  the  water  where 
she  would.  When  the  sun  began  to  sink  she  walked  in  the 
desert,  she  and  her  long  shadow  on  the  sand.  Even  I  and 
the  cock  would  stay  by  the  grass  and  the  black  earth  and 
the  water. 

As  she  turned,  Aria  the  jackal  came  out  of  the  oasis. 
Welcome,  much  alarmed,  took  to  a  tree,  the  bell  of  Even 
I  began  to  jangle.  But  Aria  left  them  both  alone  and 
went  straight  to  Dorothea.  He  was  only  a  greyish-yel 
low,  sizable,  part  dog,  part  wolf,  and  she  presently  saw 
that  there  was  no  wolf  to-day.  "Dog,  dog!  what  is  it?" 
she  asked. 


302  THE   WANDERERS 

Aria  went  from  her  toward  the  palms,  came  back  and 
pulled  at  her  robe.  "What  is  it?  What  has  happened?" 
But  he  could  not  tell  her,  could  only  tell  that  something 
had  happened,  and  that  she  should  come  with  him.  After 
awhile,  she,  being  "moderate,"  went. 

Dark  was  now  rushing  over  the  desert.  The  oasis  belt, 
through  which  she  had  never  gone,  was  darker  than  dark, 
thick  with  tree  and  bush  and  vine,  uneven-floored,  with 
sudden  threads  and  pools  of  water.  Small,  living  things 
rustled  and  scampered.  Aria  went  through  easily;  the 
hermit  behind  him  now  struck  against  trees,  now  stumbled 
and  fell.  But  some  old  ease  of  movement  through  wood 
land  coming  up  from  the  very  deep  past,  she  followed  on 
through  the  dark. 

The  palms  thinned  and  they  came  into  what  she  recog 
nized  must  be  the  other  hermit's  garden,  then  they  stepped 
out  of  the  oasis.  Here  was  the  star-roofed  desert,  and  a 
slope  of  sand  to  such  a  ridge  as  that  in  which  she  had  her 
cell.  With  a  loping  gait  the  jackal  mounted  this  slope 
and  she  followed.  Before  she  reached  the  cave  she  heard 
Dorotheus  raving  in  fever. 

Sometimes  anchorites  went  mad.  "Is  there  here  a 
madman?"  thought  Dorothea,  and  her  heart  beat  harder. 
But  she  followed  Aria,  and  saw  that  the  hermit  lay  out 
side  of  the  cave  and  paid  no  attention  to  her  footsteps,  nor 
to  the  jackal  who  now  stood  whining  beside  him.  Here, 
under  open  sky,  was  yet  pale  light.  She  saw  for  the  first 
time  the  look  of  the  hermit  Dorotheus.  Stooping,  she  put 
her  hand  upon  his  bare,  outflung  arm.  The  touch  burned 
her.  He  was  tossing  from  side  to  side,  talking  to  men, 
his  companions,  crying  out  about  great  rivers  they  must 
surely  reach. 


THE   HERMITS  303 

The  hermit  from  beyond  the  oasis  went  into  his  cave,  felt 
for  and  found  the  water  jar  and  the  hollowed  gourd  beside 
it,  came  forth  and  kneeling  gave  him  to  drink,  then  laved 
with  the  cool  fluid  his  burning  limbs.  His  ravings  sank, 
he  lay  muttering.  Dorothea  took  the  water  jar  down  to 
the  garden,  found  the  spring  he  used,  drew  water,  and  bore 
the  jar  upon  her  shoulder  up  the  slope.  Now  was  only 
starlight,  and  the  voice  and  heavy  turnings  of  the  sick 
man. 

She  sat  upon  the  sand  at  a  little  distance,  and  when 
the  fever  mounted  she  gave  him  water,  and  bathed  with 
water  face  and  breast.  For  the  rest  she  watched  the  stars 
and  said  her  prayers.  Aria  had  gone  down  to  his  prowling 
in'  the  desert,  under  the  palm  trees,  in  the  thickets.  She 
prayed  kneeling,  she  prayed  stretched  upon  her  face.  The 
night  wore  by,  she  heard  across  the  palm  tops  the  crowing 
of  her  cock.  Here  came  the  light  —  and  now  what  must 
she  do?  "Lord,  Lord,  Thy  will?" 

She  might  find  the  first  neighbour  cell  of  this  laura,  sum 
mon  its  inmate  to  come  nurse  his  fellow-hermit,  or  if  he 
would  not  do  that  urge  him  to  go  bring  help  from  the 
monastery.  Doubtless  that  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  even 
imperatively  the  thing  to  do.  Monk  would  help  monk,  and 
the  nun  might  return  to  her  cave.  If  there  were  sin  in  this 
night's  contact  prayer  and  penance  might  atone.  .  .  .  To 
find  the  next  hermitage  —  that  might  be  an  all  day's 
work!  She  did  not  know  how  this  laura  was  placed  — •  all 
day,  and  more  than  all  day  in  the  wild  ocean  of  the  desert. 
Then  to  make  that  anchorite  attend,  to  make  him  follow 
as  she  had  followed  Aria!  If  he  were  of  the  intenser 
saintliness,  hard  work  would  a  woman  have  to  make  him 
know  that  she  was  not  a  prince  among  daemons,  masking 


3o4  THE   WANDERERS 

so!  "Retro  me,  Sathanas!  Retro  me,  Sathanas!"  If  such 
an  one  came  to  see  that  she  was  human,  even  nun  as  he 
was  monk,  then  still  might  be  as  great  horror,  as  obdurate 
a  stopping  of  eyes  and  ears.  The  very  saintly  had  almost 
all  vowed  never  to  view  again,  never  to  speak  again  with 
a  woman.  If  she  found  one  who  perforce  listened,  he 
might  not  conceive  it  his  duty  to  interrupt  his  penance, 
leave  his  cell.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  she  must  go  in  search  of 
a  man  to  come  — 

Now  sprang  the  rose  in  the  east.  Dorotheus's  voice  had 
sunk  away.  She  found  when  she  went  to  him  that  he  was 
lying  in  a  stupor.  In  the  year  she  had  spent  in  the  convent 
village,  before  she  came  forth  into  the  desert,  she  had  seen 
and  helped  with  illness  enough.  There  came  memories,  too, 
of  sickness  in  the  great  Alexandrian  household,  together 
with  old  tellings  of  Anna  the  nurse.  She  thought  it  not  un 
likely  that  she  looked  at  a  dying  man.  "Lord,  Lord,  Thy 
will?" 

Dorotheus  lay  a  long  while,  very  ill,  as  ill  as  a  man  can 
be.  After  the  first  night  and  day  he  lay  in  the  cave.  Doro 
thea,  a  strong  woman,  had  dragged  and  lifted  him  there. 
He  lay  where  the  light  from  the  entrance  fell  upon  him,  in 
a  wave  of  sunlight,  or  of  moonlight  or  starlight.  Sometimes, 
at  night,  he  lay  in  firelight  from  a  heap  of  twigs  and  dried 
palm  fronds.  That  was  when  she  thought  that  he  would 
die  in  some  moment  between  the  coming  and  the  going  of 
the  stars.  She  had  found  no  fire  in  his  cave,  but  flints  from 
which,  long  and  patiently  striking  them  together,  she  ob 
tained  a  spark  with  which  to  set  alight  shredded  palm  fibre. 
Embers  once  secured,  she  nursed  them,  fencing  with  stones 
and  feeding  at  need,  and  so  kept  by  her  fire. 

Food  —  always    there    were    dates    enough,    and    she 


THE  HERMITS  305 

brought  the  ripened  grapes  with  other  small  fruits  from  the 
garden.  In  her  own  garden  grew  lentils,  and  she  had  in  her 
cave  a  measure  of  grain.  In  the  scant  moments  when  he 
slept  she  hastened  down  to  the  palms  and  across  to  her 
own  demesne,  whence  she  brought  back  with  her,  in  her 
woven  baskets,  all  of  use  that  she  could  carry.  Even  I 
followed  her,  and  at  last  Welcome,  though  he  kept  a  dis 
tance  between  him  and  Aria.  Her  cave  and  garden  came 
and  dwelled  in  Dorotheus's  cave  and  garden.  She  found 
two  stones  that  would  answer  for  millstones,  and  she 
ground  the  grain  between  them,  and  with  water  and  salt 
made  thin  cakes  and  baked  them  before  her  fire.  The  sick 
man  took  from  her  fingers  the  crumbled  food  that  should 
give  him  strength  to  fight  the  long  fever.  She  pressed  the 
grapes  and  strained  the  juice  into  a  water  cup  and  gave 
it  to  him  when  the  fever  sank  and  she  thought  his  heart 
would  stop.  Days  passed,  days  and  days. 

When  he  burned  with  fever  she  brought  the  water  jar, 
cool-filled  from  the  desert  spring  and  bathed  him  as  she 
would  bathe  a  child.  She  nursed  him  as  she  would  nurse  a 
child,  finding  nothing  too  low  for  her  to  do.  She  nursed 
him  as  she  would  have  nursed  her  own  child,  wanting  only 
his  recovery.  Perhaps  he  was  like  a  child  to  her.  Perhaps 
here  was  human  interest  where  for  so  long  in  the  desert  the 
soul  had  been  strained  toward  upper  realms.  Perhaps  the 
bow,  unbending,  rested,  with  fondness  for  its  rest. 

For  Dorotheus,  unconscious,  unresisting,  asceticism  was 
sent  to  the  winds.  He  was  lapped  in  care.  His  frame  was 
cooled  or  warmed  at  need.  Food  and  water  were  put  be 
tween  his  lips.  His  bed  was  made  of  soft,  clean  sand; 
he  was  watched  beside  by  day  and  by  night.  The  cavern 
was  deep  and  shadowy,  with  outlets  more  than  one.  The 


3o6  THE   WANDERERS 

moving  air  refreshed  it,  even  when  the  desert  withered  be- 
eath  the  sun. 

The  hermit,  lying  there  ill,  became  her  consuming  inter 
est.  She  slept  only  when  she  must.  She  toiled  for  him, 
watched  him.  By  now  her  will  would  have  resisted  an 
other's  coming  to  take  her  work  —  anchorite  or  pilgrim  or 
monk  from  the  monastery,  or  any  desert  wanderer.  But 
it  was  the  heated  season,  and  unhealthful  for  wandering, 
and  no  one  came. 

Desiring  to  keep  her  strength,  she  put  from  herself  any 
rigour  of  privation,  fasting,  discipline,  prescribed  prayers. 
"There  will  be  time  for  all  that,"  she  said,  "for,  O  High 
God,  I  am  yet  far  from  Thee!"  So  she  nursed  Dorotheus 
in  the  cave  by  the  little  oasis.  And  after  a  long  time  the 
fever  broke. 

It  was  night  when  she  felt  that  his  brow  and  hands  were 
moist,  that  he  lay  relaxed  and  at  rest,  breathing  naturally. 
He  slept,  and  she  went  without  the  cave  and  faced  a  cres 
cent  moon.  "Jackal,  Jackal  — Even  I — Welcome!  He  will 
live !  He  will  live !  O  moon  and  palm  trees !  He  will  live ! " 

Dorotheus  slept,  and  when  he  waked  he  was  conscious, 
but  like  a  little  child  for  weakness.  As  though  he  were  that, 
Dorothea  nursed  him  still.  Several  days  passed;  he 
strengthened,  mind  and  will  began  their  return.  She 
kneeled  beside  him  with  fruit  and  a  thin  barley  cake.  He 
put  her  hand  away.  "Eat!"  she  said.  "Eat!" 

"I  have  been  ill.   Who  are  you?" 

"  Dorothea,  from  the  other  cave,  across  the  oasis.  I  have 
nursed  you,  brother.  Eat  now!" 

"It  is  sin." 

"When  you  are  well,  do  as  you  will.  Now  you  must  get 
strength.  Eat  —  eat!" 


THE   HERMITS  307 

She  was  now  the  stronger  willed,  and  he  obeyed.  He 
looked  at  her  wonderingly,  then  closed  his  eyes  and  slept. 

He  waked  and  slept,  waked  and  slept.  He  had  lain  close 
to  death's  door  and  lain  there  long,  and  now  he  recovered 
tardily.  "Why  will  you  not  go  away?"  he  asked. 

"If  I  did,  you  would  die.  I  will  go  when  you  can  stand 
and  walk  and  get  food  for  yourself." 

"It  is  not  much  to  die.  ...  I  bid  you,  then,  go  get  some 
brother  —  " 

"The  desert  is  hot  iron  to  cross.  He  might  not  come, 
nor  know  how  to  nurse  you  if  he  came."  Dorothea,  weav 
ing  baskets  in  the  light,  began  to  sing  a  hymn  of  the 
Church.  She  sang  low  and  sweet,  verse  after  verse,  hymn 
and  psalm.  The  tears  came  out  of  Dorotheus's  eyes,  he 
made  a  movement  with  his  hands,  and  gave  up  com 
manding. 

Day  by  day  now  he  strengthened.  Usually  he  lay  silent, 
and  she  moved  or  sat  in  silence.  In  the  cool  of  the  day  she 
sat  without  the  cave,  and  at  night  she  lay  without  it.  As 
he  strengthened,  less  and  less  did  she  come  about  him.  But 
she  sang  at  her  work,  rich  chants  of  the  Church. 

Now  he  could  lift  himself,  sit  propped  against  the  cave 
wall,  put  his  hand  upon  Aria  beside  him,  watch  through 
the  entrance  Even  I  and  Welcome,  and  the  changing 
desert  hues.  Suddenly,  one  afternoon  he  began  to  speak. 

"My  name  is  Dorotheus,  and  yours  Dorothea.  ...  I 
suppose  that  we  all  might  be  gathered  under  one  name. 
...  I  was  born  at  Aria  on  the  Danube,  of  Roman  parents, 
schooled  at  Verona,  then  a  soldier.  I  fought  at  Soissons, 
and  was  left  for  dead  after  the  battle.  The  Franks  took 
me  and  I  dwelled  captive  among  them.  I  planned  an 
escape  and  made  it.  I  wandered  southward  and  came  to 


308  THE   WANDERERS 

Spain  and  was  there  long  time.  There  it  was  I  had  a 
vision.  I  saw  the  world  ruining  down,  the  barbarian  at  the 
gate,  and  within  the  hold  mere  ill  doing.  Then  I  saw  the 
sky  above  the  sky,  and  down  swung  a  thread  by  which 
to  climb.  In  Spain  I  turned  to  the  Church,  became  a 
catechumen,  at  last  was  baptized.  Then  I  crossed  to 
Africa,  then  I  found  a  maze  of  dangers.  At  last,  through 
those,  I  came  to  the  monastery.  I  have  been  monk  for 
seven  years,  hermit  here  for  six." 

He  ceased  speaking.  Dorothea  sat  by  the  entrance,  and 
the  slant  gold  sunshine  turned  her  form  to  gold.  She  spoke. 
"I  lived  in  Alexandria.  My  father  was  the  wealthy  Clau 
dius,  my  mother  was  Verina,  born  of  a  Roman  and  a  bar 
barian  woman.  My  nurse  was  Anna,  who  knew  as  many 
stories  as  there  are  dates  in  a  date-garden.  I  had  for 
teachers  Sylvanus  and  the  old  Hipparchus.  When  school 
was  over  and  Verina  was  dead,  I  came  to  Claudius's  world 
in  Alexandria  —  and  all  above  was  music  and  dancing  and 
flowers  and  laughter,  and  all  below  were  gins,  snares,  traps, 
and  yielding  doors  above  deep  pits.  The  daughter  of 
Claudius  was  I  called  —  the  daughter  of  Claudius!  Riches 
and  pomp  and  vanity  and  madness!  Vanity  of  vanities, 
saith  the  preacher  —  Then  I  saw  that  that  was  so.  Then 
in  the  night-time  came  true  seeing.  Then  I  saw  the  stead 
fast  behind  the  whirling,  and  the  clear  behind  the  muddied, 
and  I  laid  down  the  flowers  that  withered.  I  have  been 
nun  for  six  years,  hermit  here  for  four." 

No  more  was  said  that  eve.  She  brought  him  food  and 
he  ate,  and  as  the  stars  came  out  settled  to  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  said,  "You  have  been  to  me  like  a  holy 
saint,  come  down  from  Heaven's  court!" 

"No,"  she  answered.    "I,  Dorothea,  a  being  full  of  sin 


THE   HERMITS  309 

but  wishing  good,  found  you  before  me,  ill  and  helpless, 
and  did  what  I  might.  So  you,  a  being  like  me,  finding  me 
before  you  and  endangered,  would  have  done  what  you 
might.  We  are  equals." 

The  next  day  he  stood  but  could  not  walk.  "Babes  have 
to  learn,"  she  said.  "We  are  babes,  I  suppose,  more  often 
than  we  think!" 

Having  begun  to  strengthen,  he  strengthened  fast. 
Before  long  he  could  walk.  "In  a  little  while,"  she  said, 
"I  shall  go  to  the  other  side  of  the  oasis." 

He  took  time  to  answer,  then,  "The  hermits  Dorothea 
and  Dorotheus,  and  a  belt  of  palms  wide  as  the  world 
between  them!" 
•    "Yes.   Much  alike  and  far  apart." 

"It  comes  with  a  strange  and  loud  sound,  how  much 
alike—" 

"A  week,  and  we  shall  be  as  we  were  before,"  said 
Dorothea;  and  blew  upon  the  fire  to  make  hot  coals  for  the 
baking  of  the  barley  cakes. 

When  the  week  had  passed  he  was  strong  enough  to 
walk  down  the  slope  of  sand  to  the  palm  trees.  The  eighth 
morning,  waking,  he  found  the  water  jar  filled,  bread  made 
and  left  in  fair  quantity,  the  fire  stored.  But  Dorothea 
was  not  there,  nor  Even  I  nor  Welcome.  ...  He  went 
down  to  the  garden,  and  beyond  it  into  the  palm  belt,  and 
he  heard  from  the  other  side  the  bell  of  Even  I.  In  the 
night-time,  lying  awake,  he  heard,  at  the  turn  to  morning, 
the  cock  crowing  beyond  the  palms. 

That  very  day  came  pilgrims  with  two  monks  for  guides, 
going  about  the  desert  for  their  sins,  visiting  the  blessed 
anchorites  who  had  put  behind  them  every"  lust  of  the 
flesh.  The  pilgrims  looked  somewhat  slightingly  upon 


310  THE  WANDERERS 

"moderates."  Yet  was  a  "moderate"  doing  more  than 
their  hearts  would  let  them  do.  "Moderates"  rarely 
worked  miracles,  and  their  blessing  was  as  silver  to  the 
extreme  ascetic's  gold.  Yet  blessings  were  blessings  —  let 
them  get  this  one,  and  go  on  to  the  saint  who  for  twenty 
years  had  not  risen  from  his  knees,  whom  the  ravens  fed! 
They  went  down  on  their  own  knees  before  Dorotheus, 
who  said:  "Brothers,  the  Kingdom  and  the  King  is  within 
you.  May  God  bless  you,  and  give  you  strength  to  turn 
your  eyes  upon  yourselves!"  They  had  to  be  satisfied  with 
that,  which  did  not  even  ring  silver. 

Nor  could  they  draw  any  relation  of  daemons  and  mar 
vels.  Said  one:  "This  morning  we  saw  Eugenius  who  in 
Carthage  always  went  blindfold  for  fear  his  eyes  should 
behold  women!  Now  three  daemons  take  the  shape  of 
women  and  beset  him  night  and  day!  He  rolls  himself  in 
thorns,  and  he  fastens  himself  to  a  cross  he  has  made,  and 
the  air  is  full  of  whistlings  from  his  scourge  of  wire.  So  he 
keeps  the  daemons  ten  paces  away — " 

Another  cast  up  his  eyes.  "Women  are  the  worst  foes 
of  the  saintly!" 

One  of  the  monks  said,  "On  the  other  side  of  this  oasis 
there  is  a  cave  and  a  woman  hermit." 

His  fellow,  turning  upon  him,  spoke  harshly.  "We  who 
take  pilgrims  from  cave  to  cave  are  commanded  not  to 
speak  of  that  laura  of  women,  brides  of  Christ,  that  ap 
proaches  on  yonder  side.  —  You  have  sinned!" 

The  other  beat  his  breast.  "I  have  sinned!"  The  pil 
grims  stared  at  the  palm  trees  and  the  western  rim  of  the 
desert.  With  an  ejaculation  the  older  monk  herded  them 
toward  the  distant  cave  of  that  ascetic  who  for  twenty 
years  had  not  risen  from  his  knees,  whom  the  ravens  fed. 


THE  HERMITS  311 

Dorotheus,  having  given  the  blessing  asked,  remained 
silent,  sitting  with  his  hands  clasped  and  his  eyes  upon  the 
sand.  Pilgrims  and  monks  were  accustomed  to  respect 
abstraction.  They  went  away,  were  presently  but  a  little 
group  of  parti-coloured  dots  in  the  immense  and  blinding 
desert. 

Days  passed,  weeks  passed,  months  passed.  Dorotheus, 
recovered,  dwelled  alone  in  his  cave,  his  garden  and  the 
desert.  Across  the  palm  belt  dwelled  Dorothea.  The  one 
had  Aria,  the  other  Even  I  and  Welcome. 

It  was  winter  in  this  land,  clear  and  warm,  perfect 
weather.  Suddenly,  one  day,  one  afternoon,  each  went 
inland  from  a  garden,  met  the  other,  midway  in  that  grove 
of  palms.  "Loneliness!  .  .  .  What  harm  in  meeting  so,  in 
speaking  so?  —  when  all  the  while  I  feel  a  presence,  and 
you  feel  a  presence  —  only  they  are  where  they  cannot 
talk  together  —  " 

They  stood  beneath  the  trees,  a  space  of  black  and  white 
between  them.  "Two  men  —  two  women  —  ascetics  of 
the  Lord  —  dwelling  so,  would  sometimes  come  this  near, 
would  sometimes  speak  together!  .  .  .  Youth  and  the  riot 
of  youth  we  have  put  away.  As  though  we  were  two  men, 
as  though  we  were  two  women,  we  are  fellow-travellers  to 
the  City  of  God.  .  .  .  Would  Christ  say,  *  Speak  no  word  — 
shut  your  eyes,  turn  your  head'?" 

"If  it  were  sin  —  but  it  is  not!  —  Are  we  so  different, 
you  and  I?" 

"We  are  one.   You  are  my  soul,  rich  and  good — " 

"And  you  are  my  soul,  rich  and  good — " 

"Where  does  Christ  say,  *  Woman  is  of  the  daemon,  but 
man  of  the  angel'?  —  Let  us  meet  as  one,  above  man  and 
woman,  equal  and  unharming  each  the  other!" 


3ii  THE  WANDERERS 

"I  will  come  to  your  garden  once  a  month,  and  do  you 
come  to  mine  once  a  month.  We  will  talk  together  a  little 
while  —  a  little  while!  And  if  we  sin,  I  know  it  not!" 

In  this  fashion  they  lived  for  a  year.  Twice  twelve  times 
they  saw  each  other,  in  the  freshness  of  the  morning  or  the 
last  gold  of  the  afternoon.  They  sat  or  stood,  a  space  of 
earth  between,  and  they  talked  for  an  hour.  Then  the  one 
who  was  the  visitor  turned  east  or  west,  and  another  fort 
night  went  by.  The  year  was  thus  made  of  long  gold  beads 
with  jewels  in  between. 

Then  came  a  time  of  struggle  and  suffering.  Then  one 
of  the  jewels  turned  suddenly  fire  red.  .  .  . 

Then  the  two  met  for  the  last  time  in  this  desert  or  this 
oasis.  "We  thought  that  we  were  strong,  but  we  have  yet 
to  grow.  .  .  .  Oh,  far  and  far  to  grow!" 

"We  do  not  know  what  is  strength." 

"No.  .  .  .  How  right  or  how  wrong  .  .  ." 

"  Dorothea  —  Dorothea  —  Dorothea ! " 

"Shut  eyes,  Dorotheus —  Now  I  am  gone  —  I  am 
gone!  .  .  .  Farewell,  Dorotheus!" 

The  two  were  apart,  and  night  was  rushing  over  the 
desert.  Night  held,  starry  and  high  and  still.  Then  came 
first  light,  divinity  of  dawn  in  the  desert.  Dorotheus  in  his 
cavern,  Dorothea  in  hers  prayed,  then  ate  and  drank. 
Then  each  took  a  staff,  and  the  one  summoned  Aria  and 
the  other  Even  I  and  Welcome.  The  sun  was  not  yet  up, 
but  the  sky  was  a  rose  garden.  Dorotheus  and  Dorothea 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  oasis,  and  the  one  went  stead 
fastly  east,  and  the  other  west. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    END   OF  THE  WORLD 

ROBERT  LE  DEBONAIR  was  King  of  France,  Robert  le 
Diable  Duke  of  Normandy,  John  XIX  Pope  in  Rome, 
Heribert  bishop  of  a  diocese  taking  name  from  a  certain 
town  between  Orleans  and  Paris,  Rothalind  abbess  of  a 
great  house  of  Benedictine  nuns,  Rainulf  the  Red,  baron 
holding  a  wide  fief  and  dwelling,  when  he  was  not  hunting 
or  ravening  in  war  or  gone  upon  some  visit  with  an  errand 
of  his  own,  in  the  castle  above  the  river.  Rainulf  was  a 
tiger,  a  stream  in  flood,  a  devastating  flame.  Mellissent 
was  his  wife.  Isabel  his  sister,  was  gone  to  be  a  nun,  and 
was  the  happier.  Gerbert  was  a  music-maker  who  ate  in 
Rainulf  s  hall. 

Black  Martin  was  not  king  nor  baron  nor  bishop,  but  he 
ruled  his  own  that  was  a  troop  of  Entertainers  of  the  time. 
The  time  knew  much  wretchedness  and  clamoured  for  crude 
forgetfulness.  Black  Martin  sold  that  by  the  hour,  whether 
in  market-place  or  castle  hall  or  at  crossroads  when  travel 
lers  enough  gathered  themselves  together.  He  was  seventy 
years  old  and  yet  strong  as  an  ox.  He  was  dour  as  an  old 
wolf  in  winter,  and  in  fight  as  bad  to  meet,  and  he  had  the 
cunning  of  Sire  Reynard.  He  ruled  the  score  of  human 
beings  composing  his  band  with  more  absoluteness  than 
King  Robert  ruled  France.  Four  of  the  number  were  his 
sons,  and  four  the  women  with  his  sons.  Two  of  these 
were  lawful  wives,  two  were  not.  There  were  five  children 


3  H  THE   WANDERERS 

in  the  band.  The  remainder,  all  but  one,  were  kindred 
only  because  of  Adam  and  Eve,  and  because  their  com 
mon  occupation  was  to  lighten  the  heart  or  impart  motion 
to  the  mind.  The  remaining  one  was  Gersonde,  Black 
Martin's  granddaughter,  child  of  a  dead  eldest  daughter 
and  some  man  somewhere.  Black  Martin's  band  included 
buffoons,  tumblers  and  wrestlers,  a  dwarf,  a  dancer,  two 
singers  of  ballads  and  players  of  harps,  a  man  with  an  ape 
and  a  fortune-teller  or  soothsayer. 

That  last  was  the  part  of  Gersonde.  She  was  a  dark 
woman  in  a  red  gown  with  a  blue  mantle.  Now  Black 
Martin  beat  her,  and  now  he  listened  to  what  she  said 
when  it  came  to  points  upon  which  he  was  perplexed.  He 
never  listened  to  her  when  she  wished  to  stop  soothsaying 
and  play  and  sing  with  Bageron  and  Rosamund,  or  to 
dance  with  Maria.  If  she  was  insistent  he  beat  her.  He 
was  not  perplexed  here;  coin  came  into  the  soothsayer's 
lap  when  the  singers  and  players  and  even  the  dancer 
made  no  collection. 

It  had  been  a  year  of  greedy  staring,  but  small,  small 
collections.  The  lesser  folk,  serfs  and  villeins  and  crafts 
men  in  mean  villages  or  towns,  gave  nothing  at  any  time 
unless  it  were  coarse  food,  or  a  turn  of  their  trade,  or  a 
night's  rest  in  a  dark  and  crowded  hut.  This  year  they  did 
not  give  the  food  for  it  was  a  famine  year.  And  the  burghers 
in  the  larger  towns  gave  little,  the  landed  folk  gave  little, 
castle  court  and  hall  proved  saving. 

Black  Martin  spoke  to  Gersonde.  "Soothsay  for  me! 
We  have  had  famine  years  before — ". 

"They  told  us  in  that  monastery,  'The  End  of  the 
World  is  coming.'  The  priest  we  met  on  the  road  said, 
'The  End  of  the  World  is  at  hand.'  Three  days  ago,  in  that 


THE  END   OF  THE   WORLD          315 

town,  the  church  bells  rang  and  our  crowd  left  us,  and  gave 
their  money  into  the  bag  at  the  door." 

"The  End  of  the  World — !  I  would  I  might  give  it  a 
rope's  end!  The  world  ends  if  I  starve!  Hark  you!  Sooth 
say  that  the  world  does  NOT  end  —  at  least  not  in  our  time! 
Soothsay  along  this  road  so  that  we  get  money!  Get 
money  or  get  thy  ribs  broken!" 

The  road  that  they  were  travelling  proved  villainously 
muddy  and  uneven.  Toward  noon  they  found  sitting  by 
the  wayside  a  man  who  led  in  a  chain  a  brown  bear.  "This 
road  is  most  fearful —  plain  bog  and  mountain!  But 
never  will  it  be  mended,  because  presently  comes  the  End 
of  the  World!" 

Black  Martin  shook  his  bull  shoulders  and  scraped  the 
mud  from  a  torn  shoe.  "We  have  been  south.  I  heard  a 
little  talk  of  that,  but  nothing  in  a  month  to  what  is  heard 
now  in  a  day!  Is  it  coming  to  an  end  in  France  before  it 
comes  in  Aquitaine?" 

"Only  the  learned  knew  much  about  it,"  said  the  bear- 
ward.  "Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  comes  a  word  from  the 
bishops  that  has  to  be  read  in  all  the  churches.  And  it 
begins,  *  As  the  End  of  the  World  is  at  hand  — '  So  it  began 
to  run  from  mouth  to  mouth. — The  road  is  muddy  and 
it  is  raining?  WTell,  the  earth  sweats  with  terror!" 

It  was  yet  raining  when  the  troop  of  Entertainers  came 
into  the  town  between  Orleans  and  Paris.  They  came 
through  a  narrow  street  that  turned  and  wooind  upon  itself 
to  the  market-place,  and  all  the  way  Jouel  and  Baudwin 
beat  drum  and  played  viol,  and  Black  Martin  at  the  head 
cried  in  a  bull's  voice.  "Choice  Entertainment!  My 
masters!  My  masters!  Choice  Entertainment!"  They 
brought  into  the  market-place  a  queue  of  followers  and 


316  THE   WANDERERS 

attracted  certain  folk  already  there.  But  the  rain  came 
down  hard,  and  the  Entertainers  were  dead  tired  and 
downhearted  and  all  went  spiritlessly.  Even  fear  of  Black 
Martin  could  not  keep  it  up.  The  crowd  felt  the  chill 
rain  and  dissolved.  The  individuals  that  stayed,  having 
no  better  place  to  go,  were  not  the  kind  that  scattered 
gain. 

There  was  a  black,  tangled  knot  of  lanes  and  alleys  like 
frozen  serpents.  Mean  houses  cowered  on  either  side.  The 
Entertainers  bargained  for  night's  lodging  in  certain  of 
these,  and  fire  to  cook  food  by.  Dusk  shut  in,  with  a  great 
monastery  bell  booming  overhead.  Pastourel  the  wrestler 
and  his  wife  Jeanne  and  their  three  children  and  Gersonde 
the  soothsayer  had  a  hut-like  place  with  a  hearth  in  the 
middle  and  the  smoke  going  out  through  a  hole  overhead. 
Pastourel  was  Black  Martin's  son,  Gersonde's  uncle.  If 
he  had  not  had  a  black  temper  he  would  have  been  by  no 
means  a  bad  giant.  Jeanne  was  younger  than  he,  not 
much  older  than  Gersonde.  Gersonde  loved  Jeanne  and 
the  children. 

Outside  poured  the  rain.  The  smoke  within  the  hut 
circled  acrid  and  heavy.  Jeanne,  bringing  Pastourel  his 
supper,  let  fall  the  wooden  bowl  and  spilled  the  stew  of 
little-meat  and  fragments  of  vegetables.  Pastourel  had  a 
stick  which  he  used  in  vaulting.  He  took  it  now  and  beat 
Jeanne,  beat  her  much  worse  than  he  usually  did,  since 
the  rain  and  ill-luck  were  in  his  temper.  Jeanne  began  to 
cry  out  loudly;  his  hand  was  twisted  in  her  long  hair,  and 
he  flung  her  to  the  floor  and  still  beat  her.  The  children 
cried,  huddled  in  the  corner.  Gersonde  dragged  at  Pas- 
tourcl's  arm,  caught  at  the  stick.  He  was  strong  as  a  bull, 
he  flung  her  to  the  other  side  of  the  hut  and  kept  on  beat- 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          317 

ing  Jeanne.  The  hut  stood  in  a  populous  alley;  now  came 
folk  striking  at  the  door  to  know  if  there  was  murder.  • 

Pastourel  flung  the  door  open.  "I  am  beating  my  wife 
who  spoiled  my  supper!  Cannot  a  man  beat  his  wife  in 
peace  and  quietness?" 

The  people  left  the  door.  "It  is  nothing!  There  is 
nothing  unlawful.  He  is  beating  his  wife." 

Pastourel  gave  Jeanne  half  a  dozen  more  blows,  upon  the 
sides,  the  shoulders  and  the  head,  then  set  his  stick  in  the 
corner,  and  flinging  himself  down  upon  the  straw  ate  the 
meat  and  black  bread  without  the  broth.  The  night  set  in, 
dark,  wet  and  chill. 

Yet  the  next  morning  showed  a  bright  sky  with  sun 
beams  that  pierced  even  those  lanes.  Black  Martin's  band 
took  station  betimes  in  the  market-place.  That  was  a  large, 
unpaved  space,  muddy  this  morning  under  foot,  but  roofed 
by  a  sky  of  sapphire.  The  great  buildings  that  showed 
above  intermediate  structures  were  the  church  and  mon 
astery.  Above  them  in  turn,  upon  the  rock  above  the  town, 
struck  against  the  blue  Bishop  Heribert's  house  that  was 
nothing  less  than  a  castle.  Coming  back  to  market-place, 
there  were  found  a  storehouse,  a  guild  house,  other  build 
ings  rude  and  small,  a  few  better  houses  belonging  to  the 
principal  burghers.  Down  the  opening  of  a  street  showed 
the  peaked  roof  of  a  beguinage,  and  nearer  yet  to  the 
market-place  the  long  front  of  the  brothel  licensed  by  the 
town.  The  market  cross  rose  in  the  middle  of  the  market 
place,  and  all  around  were  the  hucksters'  booths. 

Rude  was  the  time  and  place,  and  rude  the  folk,  clergy 
and  laity,  country  and  town,  fief-holding  noble,  man-at- 
arms  and  servitor,  serf  and  villein,  monk*  and  pilgrim, 
stroller,  beggar,  outlaw,  leper,  Jew,  Saracen,  and  Christian. 


3i8  THE  WANDERERS 

Such  as  they  were,  samples  of  all  skirted  or  traversed  the 
market-place  of  this  town. 

It  should  have  been  a  good  day.  But  though  a  crowd 
gathered,  it  was  nothing  like  so  good  a  crowd  as  it  should 
have  been.  Its  units  looked  hungrily  for  a  turn  or  two, 
then  drifted  away.  Others  took  their  places,  but  these 
also  proved  unstable.  There  was  little  real  applause, 
hardly  any  loud  jocularities  tossed  back  to  the  Entertain 
ers.  These,  like  all  Entertainers,  had  the  quickest  ear  for 
any  drop  or  hollowness  in  applause.  Such  communication 
received,  the  ray  What 's  the  use  ?  saw  to  it  that  their 
own  movements  became  dispirited.  The  people  of  this 
town  had  been  taxed  of  all  their  money  or  had  given  it  all 
away.  At  least,  none  of  the  booth  people  seemed  to  have 
it,  for  their  faces,  too,  were  long,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
the  place  the  man  with  the  brown  bear  did  not  seem  to 
have  it.  The  bells  clanged  noon;  the  folk  were  streaming 
into  the  church.  A  palmer  crossed  the  market-place.  He 
held  up  his  staff  that  had  tied  to  it  a  bit  of  dried  palm.  "  It 
is  almost  One  Thousand  years  since  He  suffered!  Almost 
One  Thousand  years!  Be  not  taken  buying  and  selling, 
ploughing  and  building,  laughing  and  clapping  of  the 
shoulder  as  though  ye  did  not  believe!  Almost  One 
Thousand  years!"  The  bell  clanged  again.  Up  in  the  sky 
was  a  cloud.  Now  it  floated  so  that  it  came  between  the 
sun  and  the  town.  Shadow  wrapped  the  place.  Half  the 
people  took  panic  fright.  "Signs  and  signs!  The  End  of 
the  World— !" 

Rainulf  the  Red  rode  into  town  with  a  train  of  twenty. 
He  had  a  quarrel  with  Bishop  Heribert;  he  came  to  make 
it  lighter  or  make  it  darker.  To  the  sound  of  ringing  bells 
he  came  into  the  market-place  on  his  way  to  the  bishop's 


THE  END  OF  THE  WORLD          319 

house  that  was  in  every  aspect  a  castle.  He  knew  the  town 
well,  and  the  castle  and  the  bishop  —  at  least  he  thought 
that  he  knew  the  bishop.  There  came  in  the  only  doubt  — 
doubt  as  to  whether  the  quarrel's  shade  was  solely  a  matter 
of  Red  Rainulf  s  will. 

He  rode  his  huge  grey  horse  across  the  market-place, 
caring  not  at  all  that  he  and  his  men  thrust  against 
booths,  made  goods  to  fall  in  the  mire,  threatened  to 
trample  children  and  the  old  and  unwary.  "Rainulf  the 
Red!"  cried  the  people,  men  and  women,  and  ducked  and 
cringed. 

"Come  laugh  at  Baudwin  Buffoon!  Come  marvel  at 
Pastourel  and  Rayneval  the  wrestlers!  Come  listen  to 
Barnabo's  song,  a  circumcised  Jew  that  became  a  Chris 
tian!  Will  you  see  the  dwarf  Seguin?  —  Maria  the  dancer 
that  danced  before  the  soldan  of  Paynimry!  A  sooth 
sayer,  a  soothsayer!  Gersonde  the  soothsayer,  who  can 
taste  what  the  king  has  for  dinner,  and  hear  the  bells  in 
Rome!" 

Black  Martin's  bull  voice  burst  its  way  from  the  other 
side  of  the  market  cross.  Rainulf  the  Red  rode  on,  then 
turned  his  horse's  head.  His  men  turned  with  him,  Ger- 
bert  the  music-maker,  whom,  for  some  whim,  he  had 
brought  with  him,  turned  —  Black  Martin,  seeing  them 
coming,  felt  as  though  he  had  swallowed  a  stoup  of  wine. 
He  spoke  in  an  undervoice  to  the  Entertainers,  that,  for 
this  reason  and  that  and  another,  he  dominated  as  though 
they  were  his  fingers:  "Do  your  best —  each  one  of  youl 
Get  bright  coin  from  him  —  or  answer  to  me  —  or  answer 
tome!"' 

Rainulf  the  Red  said,  "Where  is  your  soothsayer?" 

Black  Martin  indicated  Gersonde  where  she  sat  upon  a 


320  THE  WANDERERS 

stone,  her  mantle  about  her.  "Lord,  will  you  have  her 
come  to  your  bridle-rein?" 

Soothsayers,  more  than  ordinarily,  had  left  their  youth 
behind  them.  But  this  one  was  yet  young,  and  she  had,  if 
you  chose  to  see  it,  beauty.  .  .  . 

Pastourel  and  Rayneval  were  tumbling  marvellously 
upon  the  carpet  they  had  laid.  Baudwin  Buffoon  strutted 
from  corner  to  corner.  One  of  Rainulf  s  men  laughed 
loudly,  then  another;  Baudwin  had  caught  them.  Pas 
tourel,  planting  the  stick  with  which  he  had  beat  Jeanne, 
vaulted  high  over  it.  A  man-at-arms  clapped  his  hands, 
watched  for  the  next  trick.  Maria  the  dancer  began  to 
bend  and  whirl. 

"Soothsayer,"  spoke  Rainulf,  "if  two  fiefs  quarrel,  my 
fief  and  another  fief,  shall  my  fief  win?  Will  we  get  it  done 
before  Christ  comes,  and  will  there  be  time  in  which  I  may 
get  absolution  if  there  has  been  sacrilege  committed?" 

The  soothsayer  stood  still  with  folded  hands.  All  light 
in  her  face  seemed  to  go  inward,  and  though  her  eyes  did 
not  close  they  appeared  to  rest  from  use  in  vision.  She 
stood  so  for  a  span  of  time,  while  the  bells  yet  rang  and 
the  cloud  passed  from  overhead  so  that  the  market-place 
lay  in  sunshine.  She  spoke  in  an  inward  and  murmuring 
voice.  "Why  do  the  folk  dread  the  End  of  the  World? 
That  would  be  a  fair  sight,  to  see  Christ  come!  —  but  have 
no  fear,  lord!  Long,  long,  long  will  it  be  ere  you  see  Him 
coming!" 

"I  will  get  clear  before  the  End  of  the  World?" 

"Yea.   The  End  of  the  World  is  not  yet." 

Her  face  became  as  usual.  She  sighed,  then  smiled  as 
was  the  rule,  and  made  her  reverence  and  cupped  her  out 
stretched  hand  for  the  piece  of  money. 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          321 

Rainulf  the  Red  stooped  from  the  saddle,  put  the  coin 
in  her  hand  and  closed  his  own  over  it.  "What  is  your 
name?" 

"Gersonde,  lord." 

She  went  back  and  sat  upon  her  stone.  Rainulf  the  Red 
spoke  to  Black  Martin,  standing  cap  in  hand.  He  spoke  in 
a  somewhat  lowered,  but  not  greatly  lowered  voice.  He  was 
a  strong  baron,  and  these  were  strollers,  and  it  was  nothing 
extraordinary  that  which  he  proposed.  He  drew  his  horse 
aside,  but  not  much  aside.  He  looked  at  the  soothsayer  in 
her  blue  mantle,  then  bargained  with  the  head  of  the  band. 
Black  Martin  pursed  his  lips,  then  named  a  sum.  The 
Baron  halved  it;  they  finally  agreed  upon  three  fourths  of 
the  first  amount.  Black  Martin  sold  his  granddaughter's 
body  and  agreed  that  it  should  be  found  at  such  an  hour 
in  such  a  place. 

Rainulf  the  Red  and  his  men  rode  on  to  the  bishop's 
castle,  whither  presently  followed  Black  Martin's  band  of 
Entertainers.  These  gained  some  recompense  in  the  great 
court,  with  dinner  in  the  kitchens,  and  a  night's  lodging  in 
a  loft.  But  Black  Martin  gave  Gersonde  to  the  man  sent 
for  her.  ...  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  sold  her.  He 
gave  her,  as  before,  a  beating  and  pushed  her  out.  She 
followed  Gerbert  the  music-maker,  to  whom  his  lord  had 
given  the  order  to  bring  her  to  the  tower  in  which  Heribert 
had  placed  his  guest. 

Rainulf  abode  three  days  with  the  bishop;  then,  having 
made  up  his  mind  to  declare  war,  rode  away  to  reach  safety 
before  he  did  so.  Among  his  various  determinations  was 
one  in  regard  to  the  soothsayer  Gersonde.  At  one  moment 
he  thought  that  she  was  not  fair,  and  at  another  that  she 
was  so.  Twice  in  the  three  days  he  had  demanded  sooth- 


322  THE  WANDERERS 

saying  and  had  found  a  value  in  the  words  that  came  from 
behind  still  face  and  wide  eyes. 

He  sent  one  to  bring  to  him  Black  Martin.  "The  woman 
your  granddaughter.  She  will  be  cared  for.  Here  are  three 
pieces  of  gold." 

"Sire,  sire,  the  gain  she  brings  me — " 

"Three  pieces  of  gold.  When  you  have  quitted  bishop's 
land  you  are  in  my  land.  Merchants  who  do  not  like  my 
buying  meet  ill  luck." 

"Lord,  when  you  have  done  with  her — " 

"I  do  not  buy  with  conditions.  —  Are  there  not 
granddaughters  enough  in  every  land?  Find  yourself 
another!" 

Black  Martin  returned  to  his  band.  He  had  not  Ger- 
sonde,  but  he  had  gold  in  his  purse.  "That  lord  will  throw 
her  from  him  when  his  mood  changes !  Then  will  she  feel 
her  way  back  to  us  who  are  all  she  knows  —  for  what 
better,  Christ,  can  a  woman  do?" 

Jeanne  and  the  children  wept,  but  that  made  no  differ 
ence. 

Rainulf  the  Red  and  his  men  took  the  road  to  his  castle. 
There  were  several  led  horses,  and  on  one  of  these  was 
placed  the  soothsayer. 

The  day  was  cloudy,  the  road  bad.  Rainulf  rode  well 
ahead,  with  two  or  three.  The  body  of  his  train,  loath  to 
leave  the  town,  grumbled,  swore,  was  quarrelsome  among 
its  members.  Under  the  grey  sky  the  country  wore  a  deso 
lated  look.  There  was  a  field  in  which,  earlier  that  morn 
ing,  there  had  been  reapers.  It  lay  half  cut,  and  the  sickles 
upon  the  earth  among  the  corn.  Farther  on,  they  came 
to  the  reapers  themselves,  hurrying  along  the  wayside. 
"Where  are  you  going,  you  hinds?"  A  young  man  an- 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          323 

swered:  "To  St.  Martin's  shrine.  It  is  the  End  of  the 
World!" 

Farther  on  were  other  folk,  men  and  women.  A  priest 
harangued  these.  "Holy  Church  tells  you,  it  draws  nigh 
to  a  thousand  years  since  He  suffered!  If  the  sky  be  not 
rolled  back  and  the  earth  does  not  perish  it  will  be  because 
of  Church's  prayers.  So  pray  to  Church  to  pray  for  you! 
Believe,  give,  amend  your  lives!  But  do  not  leave  your 
fields  and  your  smithies,  your  tending  of  flocks  and  diking 
and  ditching — " 

The  country  grew  wilder  and  more  unkempt.  The  sky 
hung  leaden  grey.  Rainulf  was  well  ahead;  depression 
took  his  followers.  One  turned  in  his  saddle.  "Gerbert 
there,  with  your  viol!  For  Holy  Virgin's  sake,  make  us 
music!" 

Gerbert  dropped  the  reins  of  his  horse.  The  beast 
plodded  on,  no  fiery  war-steed.  Gerbert  himself  was  little 
thought  on,  of  little  importance  in  Red  Rainulf's  demesne. 
The  music-maker  drew  bow  across  strings.  He  played 
well,  loving  his  art.  He  made  the  music  that  he  played, 
and  now  it  was  merry  and  now  it  was  sad.  To-day  he 
made  a  music  that  was  swift  and  wild.  "Gay,  gay!"  cried 
the  men.  "Fast  and  sweet!" 

Gerbert's  bow  danced  upon  the  viol  strings.  Then  a 
string  snapped.  "Mute  —  mute!"  he  said.  "The  End  of 
the  World  for  this  music!" 

The  old  horse  that  he  rode  had  fallen  back,  was  going 
with  the  hindermost.  Gerbert  found  himself  beside  Ger- 
sonde  the  soothsayer.  She  had  been  listening  to  the  mu 
sic.  Now  she  spoke.  "The  world  ends,  the  world  begins." 

Gerbert  said,  "To-morrow,  doubtless,  I  shall  mend  the 
viol  and  play  again." 


324  THE  WANDERERS 

They  were  riding  side  by  side,  and  none  giving  them 
heed.  "Why  is  it,"  said  Gerbert,  "that  I  feel  greatly  at 
home  with  you?  There  is  here  something  strange,  that  I 
cannot  understand.  It  is  as  though  a  light  and  warmth 
went  from  me  to  you  and  you  to  me." 

"Some  strings  are  stretched  alike  and  give  the  same 
sound.  —  Your  name  now  is  Gerbert?" 

"Gerbert.  And  your  name  is  Gersonde.  ...  In  the  Red 
Castle  if  you  need  help  .  .  .  But  I  am  only  Gerbert  who 
thinks  at  night,  and  in  the  daytime  plays  before  the  Baron! 
As  little  as  if  I  were  a  woman  can  I  give  help!" 

As  he  spoke  they  came  in  sight  of  the  Red  Castle. 
Rainulf  s  hold  was  a  rude,  great  place,  moat  and  bridge  and 
wall,  towers  and  keep.  It  crowned  a  hill  and  looked  down 
upon  a  river,  and  by  the  river  cowered  a  wretched  village 
of  huts.  Around  stretched  field  and  forest,  and  more  forest 
than  field.  The  sky  hung  grey.  Ravens  were  flying  above 
a  wood,  and  the  hill,  when  Rainulf's  horn  was  blown, 
threw  back  a  sullen  echo. 

Mellissent,  Rainulf's  wife,  watched  from  the  wall  the 
troop  come  up  the  road.  She  had  two  tire-maidens  with 
her,  and  she  spoke  to  them.  "Is  not  that  a  woman?" 

"Yea,  mistress." 

"Ever  he  nets  new  birds!  Well,  I  would  I  were  a  man!" 

That  was  one  day.  Mellissent  waited  two  days,  then, 
Rainulf  riding  on  business  to  the  north,  sent  and  bade  to 
her  presence  the  new-caught  bird.  "Stand  there!  .  .  .  You 
soothsay?" 

"Falsely  when  I  am  paid,  lady,  and  sometimes  truly 
when  I  gain  naught." 

"Then  soothsay  as  to  yourself." 

"I  cannot." 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          325 

"Then  will  I  for  you,"  said  Mellissent.  "Rainulf  will 
hold  you  in  liking  for  a  month,  then  will  he  wish  other  food. 
Most  women  have  no  other  claim  than  being  women; 
whether  that  is  their  fault  or  sorrow  or  mournful  plight 
put  upon  them,  I  cannot  say.  You  can  tell  what  fortune 
will  befall,  so  you  may  not  be  thrust  out  at  gate.  So  long 
as  your  fortune- telling  pleases  Rainulf  you  shall  have  your 
hole  in  the  wall  and  your  crust  of  bread.  'Ware  any  sooth 
saying  that  does  not  please  him!  —  for  then  you  will  be 
only  woman  again." 

"I  shall  not  stay  the  month,  dame,"  said  Gersonde. 

Mellissent  regarded  her,  chin  in  hand.  "Have  you  fond 
ness  for  Rainulf?" 

"No." 

"I  will  tell  you  some  things,"  said  Mellissent.  "There 
forms  a  wish  in  me  to  speak  to  you.  ...  I  was  a  girl  in  this 
castle,  but  it  was  brighter  then  than  it  is  now.  My  father 
and  his  sons  were  slain  in  battle,  and  Count  Odo  was  my 
overlord.  He  would  give  this  fief  to  one  who  fought  hard 
and  ruled  hard,  so  one  morning  there  rode  here  Rainulf 
to  be  my  husband.  Now  I  loved  a  man  whose  castle  was 
not  far  away,  and  he  was  noble,  and  in  all  ways  fit  to  carry 
this  fief.  So  I  stole  from  this  castle  and  rode  to  find  Count 
Odo,  and  kneeling  before  him  begged  him  to  give  me  that 
one  for  my  husband.  But  he  would  not,  and  he  held  me 
there  in  his  town,  and  sent  for  Rainulf,  and  married  me  to 
him,  there  in  the  church,  and  the  next  day  we  rode  back  to 
Red  Castle.  That  was  summer,  and  when  winter  came 
Rainulf  picked  quarrel  with  that  man  whom  I  loved.  War 
was  between  them,  and  Red  Rainulf  slew  my  man.  .  .  . 
Soothsay  to  me  if  a  woman  is  ever  and  always  to  marry 
only  as  says  father  or  brother  or  suzerain!  They  say  that 


326  THE  WANDERERS 

the  End  of  the  World  is  coming.  I  care  not  how  soon  it 
comes  if  things  change.  If  they  change  not,  it  is  nothing, 
coming  or  going!" 

"I  cannot  soothsay  to-day,"  said  Gersonde.  "I  only 
know  that  the  world  does  not  end  and  much  is  yet  to 
happen." 

What  should  happen  immediately  with  herself  was  to 
leave  the  castle.  She  was  homesick  for  Jeanne  and  the 
children. 

But  a  month  passed  before  she  might  win  away.  Then 
the  quarrel  between  bishop  and  baron  flamed  from  earth 
to  zenith.  Out  at  gate,  over  bridge,  down  the  road  clat 
tered  Rainulf  the  Red  and  his  men.  They  went  to  the 
bishop's  lands  there  to  harrow,  burn,  and  slay.  The  Red 
Castle  stood  emptied  of  fighting  men. 

The  sun  set;  there  followed  a  chill  night  of  clouds  with  a 
few  stars  in  between.  The  soothsayer  crept  out  upon  the 
wall,  the  great  and  small  gates  being  fastened.  She  had  a 
rope  which  she  had  made  of  many  different  woven  things. 
This  she  tied  about  a  jutting  stone  and  flung  the  loose  end 
clear.  Resting  upon  her  hands  she  looked  over  the  wall 
and  saw  that  it  hung  not  far  from  earth.  Trusting  her 
weight  to  the  rope  she  came  down  the  castle  wall.  At  hand 
was  the  moat,  cold  under  the  stars.  She  entered  the  water, 
finding  it  rise  not  higher  than  her  bosom.  Over  moat  she 
went,  climbed  the  bank,  and  presently  was  upon  wild  hill 
side.  Below  were  the  huts  of  the  serfs  of  Red  Castle;  these 
she  avoided,  and  went  her  way  by  a  cart  track  that  took 
her  by  meadow  and  forest.  She  did  not  know  how  she 
should  find  Jeanne  and  the  children,  but  she  trusted  to 
find  them. 

After  walking  for  a  long  while  she  saw  to  the  right  in  the 


THE  END   OF   THE   WORLD          327 

woods  a  red  star.  Going  toward  it  she  came  to  a  wood 
cutter's  hut,  and  peering  in  at  the  crack  that  did  for  win 
dow  saw  that  it  held  none  but  women  and  a  babe.  She  saw 
that  the  fire  had  been  lighted  because  there  was  birth.  She 
knocked  at  the  door,  and  when  at  last,  after  consultation 
within,  it  was  opened  a  little  way,  asked  for  shelter  and 
warmth.  "Naught  but  a  woman  alone?"  asked  she  who 
held  the  door.  "Sit  quiet  then  by  the  fire."  She  entered 
and  sat  by  the  fire  and  dried  her  clothing. 

In  a  corner,  upon  a  sheepskin  and  some  straw,  lay  sleep 
ing  the  mother  of  the  two-hour-old  babe.  An  old  woman 
sat  in  the  red  firelight,  the  child  in  her  lap.  The  woman 
who  had  opened  the  door  took  again  her  seat  upon  a  billet 
of  wood  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth.  She  rested  her 
elbow  upon  her  knee,  her  cheek  in  her  hand.  Gersonde  sat 
upon  the  earthen  floor,  between  the  two.  The  fire  of 
faggots  danced  and  glowed.  The  thin  smoke  wandered 
and  circled  in  the  hut  before  it  found  and  went  out  at  the 
hole  in  the  roof. 

"Who  are  you,  and  why  are  you  so  wet?"  asked  the 
younger  woman. 

"I  forded  a  stream.  I  am  a  soothsayer,  Black  Martin's 
granddaughter." 

They  were  not  curious,  or  it  seemed  to  be  enough.  They 
stayed  silent  and  Gersonde  with  them.  The  mother  and 
the  babe  slept;  the  old  woman  and  the  two  younger  ones 
sat  somewhat  huddled  over  the  fire.  Now  and  then  one 
put  out  a  hand,  took  a  faggot  from  the  heap,  and  fed  the 
flame.  The  hours  went  by.  Somewhere  a  cock  crew. 

Gersonde  lifted  her  head,  then  rose  to  her  feet.  "It  is 
time  to  go.  I  thank  you  all." 

Said  the  younger  woman:  "Guyot  and  Simon  have  gone 


328  THE   WANDERERS 

with  the  Baron.    You  may  stay  if  you  wish  and  help  with 
the  woodcutting." 

The  old  woman  spoke.  "What  do  they  say  outside  about 
the  World  coming  to  an  End?  .  .  .  What  I  do  wish  to 
know  is  this:  Is  there  to  be  turn  and  turn  about  in  heaven? 
Will  the  baron  be  the  woodcutter,  and  the  woodcutter  the 
baron?  Will  man  be  woman,  and  woman  be  man?" 

"That  is  not  the  way  they  manage,"  said  Gersonde. 
"For  then  still  would  be  unhappiness." 

She  drew  her  cloak  around  her,  said  good-bye,  and  left 
the  hut.  It  was  pink  dawn,  and  the  birds  were  cheeping 
in  the  trees.  As  she  went  she  ate  the  black  bread  they  had 
given  her. 

At  noontide  a  man,  travelling  the  same  narrow  road 
from  the  castle,  came  by  the  woodcutter's  hut.  He  carried 
a  viol  strung  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  lean  hound  padded 
before  him.  The  younger  woman  was  chopping  a  felled 
tree,  the  old  woman  gathering  faggots.  They  rested  from 
their  work  to  look  at  the  music-maker. 

"Did  a  woman  come  by  here  —  a  dark  woman  with  a 
red  dress  and  a  blue  mantle?" 
"No  woman,  sir." 

But  the  hound  kept  on,  and  Gerbert. 

The  Abbey  of  the  Blessed  Thorn  had  for  Abbess  a 
count's  sister,  a  woman  more  able  than  the  count,  able, 
determined,  genial,  no  more  religious  than  Bishop  Heribert 
or  Abbot  Simon,  but  a  good  ruler  of  her  nuns,  a  highly 
competent  wielder  and  manager  of  the  wide  fief  of  Blessed 
Thorn.  The  Abbess  Rothalind  rose  early,  and  was  a  dear 
lover  of  hawking.  Now,  the  day  being  fine,  she  was  out 
with  several  of  her  nuns,  with  two  falconers  and  a  groom, 
and  with  Ermengarde,  a  lady  accused  of  evil,  who,  pend- 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          329 

ing  judgement  in  her  case,  had  taken  sanctuary  with 
Blessed  Thorn.  The  morning's  sport  over,  the  train  came, 
under  blue  sky  and  with  a  jingling  of  bells  at  bridle  reins, 
to  a  crossroads  on  a  bit  of  heath.  Here  it  overtook  a 
woman  in  a  blue  mantle. 

The  Abbess  checked  her  horse.  "Who  are  you,  wander 
ing  here?" 

"Gersonde  the  soothsayer.  I  try  to  find  my  people  from 
whom  I  was  parted. ...  I  am  tired  with  walking  and  wasted 
with  hunger." 

"Do  you  see  the  roofs  of  Blessed  Thorn?"  said  the 
Abbess.  "Go  there,  and  you  shall  be  fed  and  have  your 
night's  rest  in  the  dormitory  of  the  poor.  To-morrow  morn 
we  may  try  your  art  —  so  that  you  in  no  wise  make  black 
magic!" 

Blessed  Thorn  had  a  fair  parlour,  giving  through  an 
arched  door  upon  grass  and  flower  beds  and  fruit  trees  in 
a  double  row,  and  one  huge  linden,  the  resort  in  blossom 
time  of  nations  of  bees.  Under  this  great  tree,  the  next 
day,  sat  the  Abbess,  beside  her  a  table  with  books  and 
writing  materials  and  before  her  a  frame  on  which  was 
stretched  the  cope  she  was  embroidering  with  coloured 
silks  and  gold  thread.  The  Lady  Ermengarde  likewise 
embroidered,  and  five  or  six  nuns,  all  sisters  or  daughters 
of  noble  houses,  held  among  them  a  long  and  narrow  web 
which  they  embroidered  with  green  and  blue  and  scarlet. 
A  nun  seated  under  a  pear  tree  read  aloud  the  recorded 
lives  of  Saints.  When  she  came  to  an  end  of  a  half-hour 
by  the  water  glass,  the  Abbess,  who  would  rather  talk 
than  read,  motioned  her  to  close  the  book.  This  was  the 
Abbess's  hour  of  refreshment  from  a  forenoon  of  hard 
work  with  accounts,  with  orders  of  the  executive  extending 


330  THE   WANDERERS 

to  mill  and  forge  and  ferry,  outlying  hamlets,  forest  and 
field,  with  details  of  Abbey  discipline  and  with  correspond 
ence.  Rest  from  the  immediate  and  particular  stretched 
its  limbs  naturally  in  the  field  of  the  somewhat  removed 
and  general. 

The  Abbess  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  drew  an  ample 
breath  and  looked  around  upon  her  spiritual  daughters. 
Her  eyes  passing  the  nuns  and  lighting  upon  Ermengarde 
marked  a  tear  coursing  down  that  lady's  cheek.  "Saints! 
Saints!"  spoke  the  Abbess.  "I  would  save  my  tears  till 
cause  was  fairly  upon  me!  Here  is  the  sun  shining  and  pop 
pies  blooming.  The  lord  who  accuses  you  of  first  beseech 
ing  his  love  and  then  striving  to  poison  him  may  be  struck 
by  God's  bolt  of  repentance.  Here  is  one  'may'!  If  he  be 
iron  to  the  bolt  your  herald  may  return,  and  with  him  the 
noblest,  most  valiant,  strongest,  and  skilfullest  champion 
in  France,  Normandy,  Aquitaine,  Chartres,  or  Burgundy 
—  one  that  this  lying  lord  will  eat  dust  before!  There  is 
another  'may'!  Perchance  such  an  one  will  not  present 
himself  and  you  must  take  one  unfamed,  weak,  or  dull  in 
the  fight,  while  the  accuser  is  strong  and  famed.  Yet  are 
we  told  that  the  angels  protect  the  weak,  and  Michael 
himself  may  guide  your  champion's  arm  and  pierce 
Torismond's  shield  and  shiver  his  spear  and  avoid  him 
from  his  horse  and  break  his  neck  and  declare  him  a  lying, 
false  lord!  Here  is  a  third  'may'!  Consider  also  that  you 
may  die,  my  daughter,  before  your  cause  comes  to  combat. 
And  again,  and  lastly,  that  the  innocent  who  is  wrongly 
judged  and  doomed  and  given  to  death  is  truly  a  martyr, 
and  rises  swiftly  through  purgatory  to  Christ  and  the 
Blessed  Virgin!" 
f.  Ermengarde  folded  her  hands  from  her  embroidery.  She 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD  331 

had  a  strong,  young  frame  that  even  this  dire  trouble  had 
not  made  weak,  and  an  apple  cheek  that  was,  however, 
fast  paling.  "Reverend  Mother,  I  ask  myself,  'Is  it  a  bad 
dream?'  I  pinch  myself,  so  mad  and  unreal  does  the  world 
seem!  I  have  no  great  wealth  to  pay  with;  I  shall  not  get  a 
strong  champion !  That  is  a  fair  flower,  the  fancying  it,  but 
it  has  no  root.  I  know  that  you,  yourself,  think  I  shall 
have  good  fortune  if  I  find  one  who  can  strike  a  good  blow, 
and  is  likewise  fool  or  reckless  or  knows  not  Lord  Toris- 
mond!  Now,  as  to  the  angels  and  the  Angel  Michael.  I 
know  what  we  say,  Reverend  Mother,  but  do  we  think 
Lord  Torismond  will  go  down  before  a  champion  who  will 
come  to  my  piping,  who  have  small  dowry  and  no  mighty 
kindred  ?  .  .  .  My  case  is  so  hard,  my  need  is  so  sharp,  that 
my  eyes  are  clear.  That  miracle  may  happen,  and  I  ask 
the  prayers  of  Blessed  Thorn  that  it  may!  But  if  it  hap 
pens  not?  True  it  is,  I  may  die  before  whether  I  die  or  live 
comes  to  be  decided  by  combat.  Truly,  I  grieve  and  mad 
den  enough  to  die!  But  I  seem  not  to  be  able  to  do  so, 
and,  indeed,  Reverend  Mother,  I  like  the  sunshine  and  the 
poppies  blooming.  And  if  I  get  no  champion,  or,  getting 
one,  he  cannot  stand  before  Torismond,  and  if  I  am  put  to 
death  with  a  cruel  death,  truly,  though  the  world  will  say 
I  guiltily  besought  Torismond's  love  and  guiltily  put  poison 
in  wine  that  I  gave  him,  I  shall  be  innocent!  And  I  shall 
hope  that  my  purgatory  may  be  short  and  that  I  shall 
swiftly  rise  to  Christ  and  the  Blessed  Virgin.  But  I  am 
young,  Reverend  Mother,  and  I  might  be  happy  yet 
awhile  here  on  earth,  and  see  and  learn  a-many  things.  .  .  . 
I  dig  again  my  nails  into  my  flesh,  and  I  say,  'It  is  an  evil 
dream!'" 

"Blessed  Thorn,"  said  the  Abbess,  "will  pray  the  Saints 


332  THE   WANDERERS 

and  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  our  Lord  her  Son  that  the  right 
may  prosper  and  the  truth  be  shown — " 

"Blessed  Thorn,  giving  sanctuary  to  one  oppressed, 
helps  right  and  truth,"  said  Ermengarde.  "And  yet  I  may 
be  slain,  and  I  am  told  that  no  more  may  be  done  here, 
and  we  know  not  the  mind  of  the  Saints  to  meward.  O 
Blessed  Mother  of  God,  I  shall  be  foully  slain! —  This, 
this  it  is  that  makes  it  all  dream-like  or  mad-like,  and 
makes  me  to  wonder  how  all  things  are  turned  and 
twisted!  ...  I  am  strong:  I  am  let  to  ride,  to  hawk,  to 
dance.  Were  I  daughter  of  serf  or  villein,  where  is  the  work 
in  field  or  house,  the  ditching  and  digging,  the  drawing 
and  carrying,  the  mending  and  making,  the  cutting  of 
wood,  the  swinging  a  reaper's  sickle  I  should  not  be  given, 
yea,  made  to  do?  ....  This  is  my  plaint,  Reverend 
Mother!  I  can  mount  and  manage  a  horse.  I  might  have 
been  taught  to  thrust  with  the  lance,  or  strike  with  the 
sword.  I  was  not  so  taught —  no!  But  with  long  watch 
ing  men  at  feats  of  arms  I  think  that  I  could  make  some 
show  at  doing  both.  Saints  my  witness,  I  think  that  I 
might  acquit  me  better  than  any  champion  I  am  likely  to 
get!  My  quarrel  it  is  —  I  have  no  weight  of  guilt  upon  my 
heart —  and  through  me  runs  a  white,  a  steadying,  flame 
of  wrath  against  Torismond  and  his  lie!  O  God!  I  could 
do  better,  my  own  champion!  If  I  had  Thy  Michael  to 
fight  for  me!  But  few  have  him,  and  I  am  not  of  those  who 
are  so  near  Thy  Heaven!  I  am  of  the  many,  like  the  leaves 
in  the  forest,  who  could  do  better  by  their  own  quarrel.  .  .  . 
Perchance  I  find  no  champion  at  all,  and  since  none  fight 
for  me  I  am  judged  guilty  and  perish.  Should  I  not  do 
better  for  myself  than  none  at  all?  O  God,  I  think  that 
fighting  for  the  truth  would  pour  a  wine  into  me  that 


THE  END   OF   THE   WORLD          333 

should  give  me  brute  strength  to  slay  the  brute  lie!  Why 
am  I  not  let  to  choose,  some  great  angel  failing,  to  fight 
in  my  own  defence,  in  my  own  quarrel?  Does  the  lie  slay 
me  then  and  there  in  the  place  of  combat?  Is  that  worse 
than  being  slain  by  the  lie  a  day  after,  two  days  or  three, 
mayhap,  judged  worthy  of  death,  because  no  champion 
came,  or,  coming,  was  too  weak?  O  God!  rather  should 
I  that  Torismond's  lance  pierced  me  through  in  the  place 
of  combat! — "  She  dropped  her  head  upon  her  folded 
arms,  her  folded  arms  upon  her  knees.  "I  am  young  and 
strong !  Why  do  they  bind  my  hands  behind  me,  not  let 
ting  me  keep  my  own  honour? — " 

The  Abbess  cleared  her  throat.    "My  daughter,  we  are 


women — " 


But  Ermengarde  was  not  comforted  by  that. 

The  six  nuns  plied  their  needles.  The  blue,  the  green, 
the  scarlet  went  into  the  long,  narrow  web.  The  linden 
flowers  sent  out  a  sweet  odour;  the  multitude  of  bees 
shaped  a  sound  as  continuous  as  a  fountain.  The  sunshine 
through  the  leaves  made  a  net  of  gold.  The  Abbess  Rotha- 
lind  turned  the  gold  thread  in  her  fingers. 

She  was  moved  —  the  stitching  nuns  were  moved. 
Because  law  and  custom  were  what  they  were,  it  was  true 
enough  that  Ermengarde  might  very  soon  be  put  to  death 
as  harlot  and  poisoner.  And  none  in  the  garden  believed 
in  their  heart  that  she  was  such.  That  perception  had 
somehow  to  be  squared  with  the  time's  belief  as  to  the 
manifested  "judgment  of  God."  As  it  would  take  great 
trouble  to  square  the  two,  they  were  able  simply  to  decline 
the  trouble.  If  Ermengarde's  cause  met  defeat,  they  and 
all  people  must  say,  under  penalty  of  sin,  that  she  was 
justly  doomed  and  punished.  But  already  was  in  use  with 


334  THE   WANDERERS 

them  and  all  folk  the  Mental  Reservation  —  though  it 
was  not  capitalized  and  was  given  a  hidden  cell  up  a  wind 
ing  twilight  stair.  At  the  moment,  it  was  allowable  still  to 
believe  that  Ermengarde  might  find  a  champion  and  that 
the  champion  might  slay  Torismond. 

The  Abbess  pushed  aside  the  gold  thread  and  coloured 
silk  cope  and  talked.  It  was  always  a  relief  to  her  to  talk 
and  not  to  listen,  though  she  had  that  self-control  that  she 
could  listen  by  the  hour  if  that  better  served  her  plans. 
"Freedom,  my  daughters,  is  in  the  nunnery — "  The  bees 
hummed  in  the  linden  tree,  hummed  and  hummed. 

Her  homily  drew  to  a  close.  "At  the  World's  End,  how 
well  then  to  be  found  in  the  shade,  in  the  fold,  about  the 
knees  of  Blessed  Thorn!" 

Cried  one  of  her  nuns,  a  favourite  and  a  bell  for  the 
thought  of  the  others:  "Reverend  Mother,  it  grows  that 
we  cannot  sleep  at  night  for  thinking  that  the  End  of  the 
World  is  nigh  —  and  how  we  shall  meet  it  — " 

The  Abbess  threaded  her  needle  with  gold  thread.  "  It  is 
just,  my  daughter,  that  'how  shall  we  meet  it?'  which 
makes  so  excellent  a  broom  of  this  news  of  the  End  of  the 
World—" 

A  lay  sister  came  to  the  garden  door  and  with  her  the 
soothsayer  gathered  yesterday  from  the  heath. 

The  Abbess  nodded.  "Come,  you,  and  tell  us  what  you 
know!  Soothsaying  is  an  idle  thing,  but  like  a  sandalwood 
box  or  a  curious  flower  it  passes  the  moment!" 

Gersonde  stood  in  the  garden  before  the  embroidering 
women. 

"Whence  do  you  come,  and  where  do  you  go,  and  what 
is  your  name?"  questioned  the  Abbess. 

"Please  you,  I  know  many  times  less  than  all  that," 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD  335 

said  Gersonde.  "But  I  lately  left  a  hut  in  the  forest, 
and  I  hope  erelong  to  find  a  band  of  Entertainers  into 
which  I  was  born,  and  I  am  called  Gersonde  the  sooth 
sayer." 

"Soothsay,  then,"  said  the  Abbess.  And,  "Ah,  Rever 
end  Mother,"  cried  Ermengarde,  "if  she  could  tell  me  — " 

"I  cannot  tell  sooth  everyday,"  said  Gersonde.  "I 
would  that  I  could!" 

"Look  at  this  lady,"  said  the  Abbess,  who  was  good- 
natured  because  she  was  fearless.  "Tell  her  if  she  shall 
find  a  strong  champion." 

Gersonde  obeyed.    "Her  champion  is  in  herself." 

"O  God,  I  am  lost!"  cried  Ermengarde,  and  covered 
her  forehead  with  her  hands. 

"No,  no,  you  are  not  lost,"  said  the  soothsayer.  "You 
are  not  lost  —  you  are  not  lost.  Such  little  words  go  little 
ways!" 

"Say  more,"  said  the  Abbess.    "You  soothsay  darkly." 

But  Gersonde  shook  her  head.  "That  is  all  the  light 
that  is  in  the  dark.  .  .  .  May  I  go  now  to  look  for  Black 
Martin's  band  where  are  Jeanne  and  the  children?  I 
thank  you  truly,  Mother,  for  harbour  and  kindness." 

However  they  tried,  no  more  was  to  be  had  from  her, 
and  so  she  was  let  to  go.  Blessed  Thorn's  grey  walls  sank 
behind  her.  .  .  .  She  was  tracing  a  circle,  and  before  her, 
now  not  many  leagues  away,  stood  the  bishop's  town 
where  she  had  left  Jeanne  and  the  children. 

The  day  was  bright,  the  summer  dressed  in  green  and 
gold.  She  passed  a  grove  of  slender  trees,  a  dog  ran  a  little 
way  beside  her,  far  away  and  veiled  she  heard  a  crowing 
cock.  The  rays  of  light  grew  slant  and  golden.  The  foot 
path  mounted,  an  old  hound  came  to  meet  her,  in  a  bare 


336  THE   WANDERERS 

field  beneath  a  thorn  bush  she  found  Gerbert  the  music- 
maker. 

"Gersonde,  I,  too,  was  tired  of  the  castle!" 

"Now  know  I  that  it  was  music  that  I  have  been  missing 
out  of  the  world!" 

They  sat  beneath  the  thorn,  and  Gersonde's  arms  were 
about  Gerbert  and  Gerbert's  arms  about  Gersonde. 

The  sun  set.  The  music-maker  had  his  cloak  and  the 
soothsayer  hers.  The  grass  was  short  and  dry,  the  earth 
held  summer  warmth,  the  air  was  still.  The  field  covered 
a  rise  of  earth,  islanded  presently  by  faint  streamers  of 
mist.  The  moon  pushed  up  round  and  golden,  as  though 
it  rose  above  marsh,  above  a  great  river.  The  man  and 
woman  who  had  come  so  far  lay  asleep. 

Morn  came.  They  waked;  he  had  bread  in  his  scrip; 
they  ate,  then  left  the  thorn  tree  and  the  islanded  field. 
Their  part  of  the  earth  turned  full  to  the  glory  of  the  sun. 
They  walked  amid  glories  and  splendours  and  blisses.  .  .  . 
What  they  determined  to  do  was  to  walk  always  thus  to 
gether  among  glories  and  splendours  and  blisses.  .  .  .  When 
they  came  to  consider  the  immediate  pathway,  that  took 
them  through  wandering  the  earth  together,  earning  and 
spending  together.  Jeanne  and  the  children?  Sooner  or 
later  they  would  find  Jeanne  and  the  children.  Splendours 
and  glories  and  blessedness.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  wise,  when  they  considered  it,  to  keep  on 
this  road  of  France  that  led  again  to  the  bishop's  town. 
Rainulf  the  Red  and  the  bishop  were  at  war.  It  was  a 
strong  town.  Rainulf  was  not  likely  to  take  it,  though  he 
might  furiously  plough  and  harrow  the  earth  around.  Nor 
could  he  reach  two  sparrows,  flying  there  in  the  bishop's 
shadow.  It  was  not  likely  that  Black  Martin  was  still  in 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          337 

this  town.  He  would  have  moved  on,  going  toward  Paris. 
Yet  was  the  town  on  the  way  to  Jeanne  and  the  children. 

So  Gersonde  and  Gerbert  kept  on  to  the  bishop's  town. 

They  went  through  a  country  filled  with  misery.  Men 
and  women,  children,  animals  that  worked  for  humanity 
and  depended  upon  it  —  everywhere  was  misery  and  mis 
ery.  It  put  out  cold  fingers  and  touched  Gersonde  and 
Gerbert.  "We  cannot  keep  our  glory  and  splendour  and 
bliss!" 

Out  of  the  misery  rose  a  hectic  enthusiasm,  bred  of 
misery  and  superstition.  Every  third  person  now  struck 
hands  together  and  cried,  "The  End  of  the  World!" 
Gaunt  and  tattered  bands  went  about,  from  hamlet  to 
hamlet,  crying,  "Throw  by  the  things  of  every  day!  It  is 
the  End  of  the  World!"  There  came  monks  who  said, 
"Not  yet  —  not  yet  awhile,  good  folk!  There  are  two  years 
yet  before  the  Thousand  Years  is  spent!  Go  back  to  your 
fields  and  your  houses!"  But  by  now  the  pale  excitement 
had  mounted  into  a  fanatic  wish  to  believe  in  Terror.  A 
monk  was  stoned  who  said,  "It  is  not  yet!"  The  contagion 
spread. 

Gersonde  and  Gerbert  saw  in  the  distance  the  bishop's 
castle  on  the  hill,  then  the  church  roof  and  other  roofs  and 
the  town  wall.  They  came  close  to  the  town,  and  here  were 
certain  huts,  clustering  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall, 
ready  to  pour  their  inmates  through  the  gate,  at  the  first 
breath  on  the  wind  of  Rainulf  s  coming.  It  was  evening. 
Gerbert  and  Gersonde  thought  to  enter  the  town  in  the 
morning;  in  the  meantime,  by  a  cast  of  art,  to  gain  here 
bread  and  night's  lodging.  She  knew  the  songs  of  Rosa 
mund;  he  could  play  far  better  than  did  Bageron. 

They  played  and  sang,  they  gained  supper  and  night's 


338  THE   WANDERERS 

rest,  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall.  ...  In  the  middle  of 
the  night  came  Rainulf  the  Red,  an  evil  whirlwind  out  of 
the  darkness,  strong,  with  five  hundred  men  behind  him. 
He  came  to  strike  like  a  battering-ram  against  the  bishop's 
gates;  perchance,  with  splendid  luck,  to  find  them  weak, 
ill-guarded.  To  do  that  he  overran,  like  a  care-naught 
tempest,  the  huddle  of  houses  without.  ...  All  was  sudden 
waking,  crying,  confusion,  blows,  wounding,  and  death. 

The  bishop's  gates  were  strong;  the  bishop  was  baron 
before  he  was  bishop.  He  had  a  strength  at  hand  within 
the  town.  Red  Rainulf  did  not  break  the  gates.  Instead, 
they  opened  against  him  and  the  host  the  bishop  had 
gathered  poured  in  torrent.  It  whelmed  Red  Rainulf  s 
men;  there  was  a  clashing  as  of  opposing  waters,  a  scatter 
ing  and  bearing  back.  Many  on  both  sides  were  killed  or 
hurt,  some  borne  off  prisoners.  Rainulf,  giving  back  in 
the  night,  cursing  the  foulness  of  his  luck,  drew  off  at  last 
his  diminished  host. 

Heribert  was  not  ready  to  pursue.  With  shouting  and 
flaring  of  torches  those  from  town  and  castle  went  back 
through  gate,  behind  wall.  They  took  with  them  their 
wounded.  Likewise  there  surged  into  the  town  with  them 
the  folk  of  those  huts  that  now  were  burning,  burning, 
fired  by  Rainulf  s  men  that  had  fought  from  hut  to  hut, 
trampling,  hurting,  slaying,  driving  apart  the  inmates, 
men,  women,  and  children.  All  of  the  bishop's  folk  hasted 
now,  or  were  pressed  and  driven,  one  part  by  another, 
through  the  gates,  into  the  town. 

With  them  was  pushed  Gersonde,  looking  this  way,  that 
way,  in  the  alternate  glare  and  darkness,  for  Gerbert. 
She  saw  him  not;  Gerbert  was  swept  away  with  Red 
Rainulf  s  men.  Hurt,  stunned  by  a  blow  from  a  mace, 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          339 

fallen  across  a  doorstep,  he  had  been  seen  by  one  from 
Red  Castle.  This  one  knew  not  why  the  music-maker  was 
there,  but  having  a  liking  for  him,  called  to  a  fellow.  The 
two  lifted  Gerbert  and  laid  him  upon  a  horse,  and  bore 
him  away  with  them. 

Gersonde  found  him  not;  nowhere  could  she  find  him. 
When  morn  came  and,  with  others  who  sought  also  for 
missing  ones,  she  returned  to  the  charred  heaps  where  had 
stood  these  huts,  still  she  found  him  not.  Here  the  slain 
had  been  left  in  the  road,  and  the  bishop,  riding  forth  at 
dawn,  had  seen  that  the  bodies  were  flung  in  the  river  that 
ran  past.  Gersonde  said,  " He  is  dead!  O  End  of  the  World, 
he  is  dead!" 

Hours  passed,  days  passed,  though  they  passed  so  slowly. 
Gersonde,  to  keep  her  body  fed  and  sheltered,  must  earn. 
Black  Martin  and  his  band  were  not  here;  they  were  gone 
on  toward  Paris.  She  thought  of  Jeanne  and  the  children, 
but  she  thought  dully,  not  caring  greatly  for  any  on  earth. 
Yet  she  gave  her  body  food  as  she  could  get  it,  and  she 
found  a  kennel-like  place  in  a  black  lane  where  the  peo 
ple  in  the  house  above  let  her  sleep.  She  tried  to  sing,  but 
the  songs  of  Rosamund  would  not  come,  with  the  music- 
maker  dead.  .  .  .  She  fell  back  upon  soothsaying.  She  sat 
in  a  corner  of  the  market-place,  her  blue  cloak  drawn 
about  her  and  her  hand  outstretched.  But  the  bells  were 
ringing  and  men  and  women  streaming  by  to  hear  the 
chanting  monks.  "The  End  of  the  World!  Presently  will 
the  moon  fall  and  the  sun  go  out!" 

Then  came  a  black-eyed,  anxious-faced  youth  who  said: 
"You  are  the  soothsayer  who  was  here  with  those  wrestlers 
and  singers.  .  .  .  Tell  me  if  I  shall  have  time  before  World's 
End  to  get  to  my  mother  in  Tours?" 


340  THE   WANDERERS 

Gersonde's  face  became  still.  With  her  hands  she  made 
the  passes  that  were  not  at  all  necessary  to  soothsaying, 
but  which  Black  Martin  had  taught  her  to  make  to  impress 
the  questioner  and  those  gathered  around.  She  made  them 
now  without  thought;  they  had  become  old  habit,  what 
her  body  did  while  the  inner  woman  reported  what  dim, 
veiled  things  she  might  perceive.  .  .  .  The  youth's  stopping 
had  stopped  others.  Said  one,  "Those  are  witch's  passes!" 

Gersonde  spoke.  "You  shall  have  time  —  you  shall 
have  time  —  but  you  shall  meet  your  mother  on  the  road. 
She  comes  to  find  you  who  are  herself  straying  afar.  For 
all  that  she  is  crippled,  she  will  meet  you  before  World's 
End." 

"How,"  cried  the  youth,  "did  you  know  that  she  was 
crippled?" 

He  spoke,  spreading  his  hands,  to  the  increasing  crowd: 
"This  is  that  soothsayer  who  was  here  before.  She  can 
tell  when  God  is  going  to  shake  the  stars  like  apples  upon 
the  earth — " 

A  current  had  set  toward  this  corner.  With  it  came  the 
palmer  who  had  crossed  this  place  before.  He  came,  tall 
and  burning-eyed,  holding  his  staff  with  the  dried  bit  of 
palm.  "What  do  you  here  who  should  fill  the  church 
porch?  What  do  you  here,  gathered  about  a  woman?" 

One  cried  out  of  the  throng  to  Gersonde:  "Tell  us  when 
will  God  shake  the  stars  like  apples  upon  the  earth?" 

Gersonde  made  her  passes  in  the  air.  "When  the  stars 
grow  on  an  apple  tree." 

"When  comes  the  End,  —  this  week  —  next  week?" 

"Know  you  not,"  cried  the  palmer,  "that  these  sooth 
saying  women  are  sorceresses,  leagued  with  the  Fiend?" 

"When  comes  the  End?" 


THE   END   OF   THE   WORLD          341 

Gersonde  pressed  her  hands  against  her  eyes.  She  was 
weary,  she  wished  to  find  heaven,  she  and  Gerbert  and 
Jeanne  and  the  children.  "That  End  of  the  World  that 
some  of  you  dread  and  some  of  you  lust  for  is  not  coming. 
You  are  not  ready  for  the  End  of  the  World!  World  ends 
when  we  rise  to  the  Truth,  melting  into  it  because  we  are 
ready.  Your  End  of  the  World  is  not  at  hand  —  no,  it  is 
not  at  hand!" 

"Soothsayer,  the  thousand  years  is  over — " 

"A  thousand  years,  and  then  a  thousand,  and  it  will  not 
be!" 

The  palmer  rent  his  robe  and  cried  aloud:  "She  blas 
phemes!"  He  found  a  second  in  the  throng.  "She  is  a 
sorceress!  Was  she  not  seen,  a  month  ago,  to  go  out  of 
gate,  riding  with  Red  Rainulfs  men?" 

At  that  many  voices  joined  in.  "Right — right!  She 
was  with  Red  Rainulf — " 

The  palmer  cried  again:  "Like  Eve  she  eats  of  the  Tree 
of  Knowledge  —  eats  and  betrays !  Evil  —  evil !  Where 
is  woman  there  I  taste  evil!" 

"Aye,  brother,  aye!  Save  when  women  are  in  a  nunnery, 
or  under  roof  with  children  — " 

"Or  yonder  in  the  brothel  — " 

"Red  Rainulf —  She  would  spy  and  betray  the  town — " 

"'The  End  of  the  World  comes  not'  —  O  blasphemer!" 

"Still  is  she  sib  to  the  Fiend  and  the  Serpent!" 

"Witch!" 

"Witch!" 

"Have  her  before  the  bishop!" 

It  was  so  that  they  had  her  —  a  throng  haling  her  up  the 
hill.  Now  Heribert  had  had  that  morning  evil  news  of  the 
ravening  of  that  baron  with  whom  he  was  at  war.  His 


342 


THE   WANDERERS 


thoughts  followed  Rainulf,  he  contemplated  putting  him 
and  all  who  held  from  him  under  ban,  obtaining  from 
Rome  an  interdict.  He  hardly  glanced  at  the  woman  they 
brought.  "Blasphemy  and  sorcery  and  betraying? — Put 
her  in  the  prison  —  here  is  not  time  to  judge  the  matter! 
Have  her  in  chains  till  the  next  day  of  hearing!" 

They  brought  her  down  into  the  town  and  put  her  in  the 
black  and  strong  place  that  did  for  town  prison.  She  sat 
in  the  dark  and  thought  of  flowers  and  heard  a  tinkling, 
rippling  music. 

The  bishop  divided  his  fighting  men  into  two  forces; 
left  one  within  the  town,  and  with  the  other  went  forth  to 
burn  and  slay  in  Red  Rainulf  s  territory.  .  .  . 

In  the  crowded  town  broke  forth  pestilence.  Now  there 
were  famine  and  pestilence  and  a  wild  superstition  and 
fanatic  longing  for  prodigies.  Without  the  walls  it  was 
harvest-time,  but  few  harvested.  Here  Red  Rainulfs  iron 
scourge  prevented,  and  here  mere  willingness  not  to  labour 
further,  seeing  that  harvest-fields  and  all  were  presently 
to  see  the  End!  The  country  poured  its  folk  into  the  town. 
All  wanted  company;  all  wished  to  dream  of,  to  talk  of, 
to  await  the  End  in  company. 

There  came  news  that  the  bishop  was  worsted  in  fight. 
The  church  bells  rang,  priest  and  monk  made  all  day  long 
prayers  and  chanting.  The  pestilence  was  not  worsted  — 
from  the  crowded  alleys  were  brought  forth  that  day  many 
dead.  Children,  too,  were  crying  with  hunger.  That  night, 
just  after  dusk,  a  great,  bearded  meteor  passed  over  the 
town.  Plain  sign  was  that  of  God's  early  Coming  —  of 
a  Coming  in  wrath!  The  palmer's  voice  was  heard  like 
a  tolling  bell.  "Prepare  your  house — make  clean  this 
place!  If  there  is  Evil  among  you,  cast  it  to  the  fire!" 


THE   END   OF  THE   WORLD          343 

When  morning  came  the  people  crowded  into  the  market 
place,  all  who  might  coming  together  to  bear  one  another 
company.  ...  In  sight  of  all,  one  of  the  towers  of  the 
church  fell. 

"  That  woman  who  prophesied  against  High  God  and  His 
ways — " 

They  beat  down  the  prison  door  and  brought  forth 
Gersonde.  There  was  in  the  market  a  long  shed  where  fag 
gots  were  sold.  Near  the  cross,  rising  from  a  mound  of 
hardened  earth,  stood  a  column  of  stone  to  which  at  times 
offenders  were  bound.  They  brought  a  chain  from  the 
prison  and  chained  the  soothsayer  to  this.  Then  men  and 
women  ran  to  bring  the  bundles  of  faggots.  There  were 
enough  of  these  to  make  a  great  pyre. 

In  the  distance,  down  the  street  that  led  from  the  gate, 
began  the  music  of  a  viol,  a  tune  rich  and  sweet,  well 
played.  The  market-place,  given  now  to  the  frenzy  of  the 
frightened  lower  nature,  paid  it  no  heed;  there  was  but  one 
there  who  gave  it  heed  and  that  was  the  bound  soothsayer. 

The  music  came  nearer,  but  it  did  not  come  fast;  it  grew 
fuller  and  louder  by  littles.  The  music-maker  came  lei 
surely,  not  knowing  that  the  wrong  in  the  world  was  more 
immediate  to-day  than  it  had  been  yesterday.  He  walked, 
playing,  revolving  in  his  mind  ways  to  find  Gersonde.  He 
played  because  he  thought  that  if  she  were  in  this  town 
that  was  a  way  to  draw  her.  In  the  market-place  they 
struck  a  torch  among  the  faggots. 

Gerbert  came,  playing,  up  the  gate  street  toward  the 
market-place.  The  street  was  empty  of  folk;  he  must  go, 
playing,  to  the  market-place.  He  played  old  folk-music, 
old  airs  that  Bageron  might  have  played.  Then  he  played 
a  new  air,  making  it  as  he  played,  and  it  had  in  it  music 


344  THE   WANDERERS 

of  the  earth  and  air,  and  the  leap  of  fire  and  the  flow  of 
light  and  the  dance  of  thought  and  the  spread  of  the  soul. 
So,  after  a  while,  he  came  to  the  market-place. 

"What  are  all  the  people  doing?" 

"They  are  burning  a  sorceress  who  said  the  End  of  the 
World  is  not  yet!" 

The  bow  still  touched  the  viol  strings,  the  hand  working 
on  though  the  head  said  nought.  Then  within  the  market 
place  the  head  spoke  and  the  hand  dropped.  Gerbert  came 
to  the  pyre  by  the  cross  and  saw  that  there  was  an  end. 
As  the  strings  of  the  viol  drawn  too  tightly  might  snap,  so 
snapped  the  cords  of  his  heart.  The  throng,  now  silent, 
listening  to  the  bells  from  the  standing  tower  of  the 
church,  saw  only  that  a  musician  fell  dead,  his  hands  closed 
upon  the  ashes  of  that  pyre.  The  bells  rang  and  rang. 
A  monk,  standing  upon  the  steps  of  the  market  cross, 
began  to  preach.  "The  World  Ends  —  The  World  Ends! 
In  Eden  Garden  the  woman  leagued  herself  with  Sin,  that 
old  serpent!  Then  did  she  tempt  our  father  Adam  who 
fell.  Then  came  Death  and  Evil.  Then  was  planted  the 
vine  of  the  World's  ending,  whose  grapes  are  ripe  to 
day." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MOONLIGHT 

THE  moon  shone  full  and  splendid,  silvering  the  garden. 
The  garden  was  formal,  paved  paths  outlining  and  enclos 
ing  flower  beds  geometrically  shaped  —  squares,  circles, 
and  triangles.  But  the  riot  of  flowers  overslipped  the  edges. 
Flowers  bloomed  in  multitude  and  made  an  ocean  of  per 
fume.  Perpetually  there  was  sound  of  water,  sliding  and 
falling  water.  It  ran  in  narrow  channels,  and  slept  in  a 
pool  lined  with  marble,  and  fell  from  stair  to  stair  in  a  cas 
cade  formed  by  art.  Black  cypress  trees  stood  up  like 
spires,  on  such  a  night  silver  spires,  fairy  spires.  The  gar 
den  belonged  to  a  castle  palace  that  with  huge  stone  arms 
clipped  it  on  three  sides.  The  fourth  saw  cliffs  and  the  sea, 
the  sea  like  one  smooth  shield  of  silver.  The  moon  shone 
so  bright  that  it  put  out  all  but  the  larger  stars.  In  the  gar 
den,  in  the  trees,  sang  the  nightingales. 

Through  a  low,  arched  doorway  came  into  the  garden 
a  man  and  a  woman.  "O  the  moon,  the  moonlight!  O  the 
nightingales!"  They  took  the  path  that  outlined  a  square 
of  flowers.  Followed  them  through  the  doorway  a  second 
couple  —  man  and  woman.  "O  the  moon!  Smell  the 
orange  trees!"  They  went  the  path  by  the  orange  trees. 
A  third  pair  came  forth  —  man  and  woman.  "The  moon 
on  the  sea!  Hear  the  nightingales!"  They  paced  around 
the  circle  of  roses.  A  fourth  pair  followed  —  a  fifth  —  a 
sixth  —  a  seventh  —  an  eighth.  It  seemed  an  Embark- 


346  THE   WANDERERS 

ment  for  Cythera.    Here  were  ladies  and  their  knights 

—  here  were  knights  and  ladies.    Amaury  and  Adelaide 

—  Balthasar   and  Berengere  —  Barral  and  Constance  — 
Guibour  and  Melisande  —  Roland  and  Blanche  —  Thierry 
and    Laure  —  Aldhelm    and   Eleanor  —  Raimbauld   and 
Tiphaine. 

The  moon  poured  splendour,  the  nightingales  were 
drunken  with  love. 

There  was  a  perron,  a  curving  wide  stair  with  landings 
mounting  from  the  garden  to  a  main  doorway,  and  here 
were  flung  cushions  and  cloths  of  bright  hues,  all  silvered 
now  with  the  silver  night.  Here,  after  some  pacing  of  the 
paths,  gathered  the  couples. 

"How  much  lovelier  than  in  hall  where  candles  put  out 
the  moon!  Let  us  stay  here  and  weave  moonshine  and  go 
to  the  nightingales'  heaven!  Let  us  not  go  indoors  the 
livelong  night!" 

"It  is  midnight  now.   Dawn  comes  soon!" 

"Let  us  tell  tales  and  sing!  But  first  we  finish  our  ques 
tion  that  we  were  debating  — " 

"Sing,  Guibour,  sing  vers  or  canzon!  Then  shall  we  talk 
of  love!" 

"Where  are  Tanneguy  and  Beatrix?" 

They  came  from  the  castle  palace  —  Tanneguy  and 
Beatrix.  "Sing,  Guibour!  sing  this  perfect  night!" 

The  troubadour  sang  —  outsang  the  nightingales.  "Love 

—  love  —  love  —  love!"  he  sang. 

The  moon  shone.  When  the  singer  ceased  they  heard 
again  the  nightingales.  From  the  perron  they  saw,  beyond 
the  cypresses,  the  sea. 

"O  the  nightingales!   O  the  moon  on  the  sea!  O  love!" 
"  Now  let  us  talk !  Where  were  we  when  we  left  the  hall  ? " 


MOONLIGHT  347 

"Women  blessed  and  crowned  by  the  worship  of  Our 
Lady,  the  Ever  Blessed  Virgin — " 

"When  God  and  Sire  Jesus  and  Holy  Church  said,  'Men, 
over  all  the  earth,  you  are  to  kneel  and  worship  and  sue 
for  grace,  for  she  is  every  man's  Queen  of  Heaven — '" 

"Then  fell  a  ray  that  broke  into  stars!  See,  they  are  in 
Beatrix's  hair  and  in  Tiphaine's  and  Adelaide's  and  Meli- 
sande's  and  Laure's — " 

"O  Tanneguy  the  Prince — !  You  borrow  the  nightin 
gale's  note,  but  you  smile  in  the  moonlight!" 

"And  you  are  laughing,  too,  Beatrix!" 

Said  Guibour:  "When  the  moon  drew  us  forth,  it  was 
Beatrix  who  was  speaking  against  that  honour  down- 
drifted  upon  women — " 

"O  Guibour  the  singer!  I  was  not  speaking  against  it! 
For  doing  that,  I  know  not  what  Holy  Church  would  do 
to  me!  I  had  not  even  a  dream  wish  to  speak  against  it! 
But  here  it  is* — but  here  it  is  —  what  knights  so  rarely 
think  of!  What  God  and  Sire  Jesus  and  Holy  Church  say 
is  this,  'Men  and  women,  you  are  to  kneel  and  worship 
and  sue  for  grace,  for  she  is  every  man's  and  every  woman's 
Queen  of  Heaven!'  —  Fair  and  good!  But  the  Queen  is 
above  women  as  she  is  above  men  —  and  she  is  in  heaven 
and  out  of  the  world  —  and  though  the  ray  comes  down 
and  breaks  into  stars  —  oh,  they  are  little  stars  and  very 
faintly  about  the  heads  of  women!  For,  see  you!  it  is  not 
because  she  is  woman  that  she  is  Queen  —  for  then  were 
she  Queen  in  herself  and  of  herself  —  but  because  God 
and  Sire  Jesus  chose  her.  .  .  .  O  knights  and  troubadours, 
do  not  the  stars  shine  only  about  the  heads  of  those  ladies 
whom  you  choose  ?  And  though  a  music  comes  down  — 
and  I  know  not  well  what  kind  of  music  it  is  —  yet  I 


348  THE   WANDERERS 

know  what  kind  troubadours  and  knights  make  of  it!  — 
Love  —  love!  Nightingale  love — -rose-leaf  love!  Love, 
love!" 

"What  kind  of  love  would  Beatrix  have?" 

"True  love  —  wide  love,  deep  love  and  high  love,  round 
love  and  square  love!  Golden  love  out  of  leaden  love!  Lo, 
my  diamond!  Love  with  a  myriad  faces  —  love  in  the 
centre  —  love  thrown  afar  —  love  sublimed  — " 

"Do  we  not  love?" 

"Tourney  love  —  pilgrimage  love  — canzon  and  sere 
nade  and  aubade  love  —  glove  in  helm  love  —  nightingale 
and  nightingale  love  —  and  all  for  a  time  and  a  season! 
Then,  '  Sparrow,  stay  at  home,  while  I,  hawk  and  eagle,  go 
sailing!'  But  in  words,  'Immortal  May  and  Guiding  Star 
and  Saint  Enshrined!'  .  .  .  But  few  women  are  Saints,  and 
only  one  is  Queen  of  Heaven.  .  .  .  The  mantle  of  love  is  not 
wide  enough,  and  the  thread  that  was  spun  for  it  is  not 
strong  enough,  and  the  loom  for  its  weaving  not  great 
enough.  .  .  .  We  cannot  get  the  furnace  as  it  should  be, 
and  the  lead  rests  lead!  Whether  the  piece  is  man  or 
woman,  it  rests  lead!  Man  knows  not  how  to  love  woman, 
and  woman  knows  not  how  to  love  man.  .  .  .  Well,  I  have 
done!  Sing  'No!'  to  all  that,  Guibour,  as  you  will  —  as 
you  will!" 

Guibour  sang  "No"  as  she  had  said.  But  while  he  sang, 
and  when  he  had  done,  it  seemed  that  there  was  poison 
rankling.  Said  Tiphaine,  and  she  spoke  half  angrily  and 
half  enviously:  "Have  we  not  declared  that  there  is  a  trea 
son  against  knight  and  ladies  and  love?  Have  we  not,  little 
by  little,  in  our  garden  meetings,  in  our  love  courts, 
worked  out  rules  and  ways?  —  I  hold  that  Beatrix  is  trai 
tress,  and  should  be  penanced!" 


MOONLIGHT  349 

Cried  Adelaide,  and  after  her  Constance:  "I  hold  so, 
too!"  — "And  I!" 

The  famed  in  tourney,  Aldhelm,  spoke  stiffly:  "The  Lady 
Beatrix  says  grievous  things  against  love  and  lovers  — " 

Beatrix  leaned  against  the  stone,  and  on  one  side  was  a 
black  cypress,  and  on  the  other  a  stream  and  torrent  of 
roses.  "Do  I  so,  Sir  Aldhelm?  Truly  I  never  meant  such 
a  thing!  .  .  .  You  tourney — and  this  one  and  that  one 
goes  down  beneath  your  spear.  And  Adelaide,  her  cheek 
upon  her  hand,  sits  and  watches  you  and  commends  you 
to  every  Saint  and  the  Queen  of  Heaven!  And  when  you 
have  won  the  wreath,  you  bring  it  upon  your  spear,  and 
lay  it  at  her  feet.  .  .  .  There  is  beauty,  Our  Lady  knows 
I  would  not  deny  it!  .  .  .  Hearken  to  the  nightingales!  Trill 
—  trill  —  trill!  The  orange  fragrance  comes  in  waves,  and 
the  moonlight  makes  us  silver  folk!" 

"Still  you  speak  outrageously,"  cried  Tiphaine.  "But 
we  know  you  study  strange  things,  with  books  and  alem 
bics,  sulphur  and  mercury,  tincture  and  quintessence  and 
spirit  —  " 

"Beatrix  the  traitress!" 

"What  penance?" 

More  or  less,  all  were  laughing,  but  the  laughter  of  some 
carried  threads  of  anger.  "What  penance?" 

"If  you  talk  of  that,  penance  me,  too,"  said  Tanneguy. 
"My  mind  and  Beatrix's  pace  together!" 

But  when  it  came  to  the  majority  they  would  not  pen 
ance  Tanneguy  the  Prince,  who  was  their  host,  nor  Bea 
trix  whose  scarf  Tanneguy  wore  in  joust  and  battle.  The 
moon  shone,  the  nightingales  sang,  ten  thousand  thousand 
flower  chalices  dropped  perfume,  a  gauze-like  wind  breathed 
here,  breathed  there. 


350  THE   WANDERERS 

Tanneguy  took  the  lute  from  Guibour  and  sang,  — 

"'I  dreamed  the  All  was  whole  and  knew  Itself, 
A  robe  it  wore  of  million  hues, 
And  million  shapes  that  moved  and  played. 
And  here  were  flowers  and  here  were  fruit, 
The  vine  ran  here,  the  tree  sprang  there, 
The  root  was  seen,  the  seed,  the  stem, 
And  there  were  women,  there  were  men !  — 
Yet  all  were  figures  in  Its  robe, 
And  when  It  thought,  they  shifted  form. 
Whence  drew  the  Robe  but  from  Itself? 
And  all  the  dreams,  and  all  the  shapes?  — 
O  man  and  woman,  know  Thyself! 
O  shaken  notes,  re-find  the  chord!'  — 

That  is  my  song  and  Beatrix's,  for  we  made  it  together!" 
The  summer  dawn  began,  the  early  summer,  between 
spring  and  summer.  There  rang  a  convent  bell.  Cocks 
crew.  The  stars  went  out;  the  moon,  like  a  pearl,  like  a 
fairy  raft,  like  a  bubble,  hung  in  the  west,  above  the  sea. 
Behind  the  castle  the  sky  spread  branched  with  coral. 
The  nightingales  still  sang,  but  out  of  sheer  weariness 
with  delight,  the  knights,  the  troubadours,  the  ladies, 
quitting  the  perron,  went  into  castle. 

The  baron  who  was  Beatrix's  lord  and  husband  was 
gone  with  the  better  part  of  his  knights  and  men  over 
seas,  upon  the  Fourth  Crusade.  He  had  been  from  home  a 
year  when  two  barons,  ill  neighbours  of  his,  combined  to 
gether,  and  taking  advantage  of  a  disordered  world,  thrust 
against  his  fief  and  castle.  Then  was  the  place  besieged, 
and  Beatrix,  the  baron's  wife,  held  it  bravely  and  strongly. 
Her  lord,  very  far  away,  having  seen  the  capture  of  Zara 
for  the  Venetians,  now  with  other  leaders  schemed  the 
taking  of  Constantinople,  all  in  the  interest  of  the  young 
Alexius  who  would  depose  his  uncle  the  Emperor,  and 


MOONLIGHT  351 

then,  one  good  turn  deserving  another,  aid  the  crusaders 
to  win  Jerusalem!  The  baron,  who  was  able,  proud,  and 
ambitious,  dreamed  a  kingdom  of  his  own.  Now  and  then 
he  thought  of  his  castle  and  fief  and  his  son.  His  wife  was 
there  to  keep  the  castle  and  care  for  the  son  she  had  borne. 
He  loved  her  no  more  than  another,  but  he  knew  that 
castle  and  son  would  get  from  her  right  watch  and  ward. . . . 
Tanneguy  the  Prince  was  Beatrix's  knight  —  that  was 
quite  correct  in  a  time  at  once  highflown  and  very,  very 
practical.  Lord  and  his  wife,  lady  and  knight  —  and  so 
the  lady  and  knight  never  forgot  the  lord  and  his  wife, 
what  harm  in  poetizing?  ...  So  the  baron  sailed  in  his 
ship  for  Constantinople,  and  dreamed  of  gold  and  power 
and  Eastern  delights. 

Meantime,  at  home,  Beatrix  held  with  knowledge  and 
courage  that  castle,  but  against  her  were  great  odds.  .  .  . 
Then  came  Tanneguy  the  Prince,  who  for  many  a  year 
had  worn  her  colours.  With  a  great  force,  in  open  field, 
he  beat  the  warring  barons.  One  was  slain,  the  other 
made  submission.  But  the  castle  walls  lay  in  huge  ruin, 
and  half  the  keep  was  a  flaming  fire.  .  .  .  Tanneguy's  town 
rose  not  many  leagues  away.  Under  his  escort,  when  she 
had  taken  good  order  for  the  wounded  fief,  came  there  Bea 
trix  and  her  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  He  gave 
her  a  fair  house  and  garden,  close  by  his  own  great  castle. 

Here  she  dwelled  in  Tanneguy's  town.  With  her  were 
steward  and  chamberlain  and  tirewomen  from  the  ruined 
castle,  and  she  had  the  two  children  Alard  and  Yolande. 
Tanneguy,  all  the  world  knew,  was  her  knight,  and  with 
poesy  and  tourney  did  her  honour.  He  visited  her  in  her 
garden  and  hall,  and  often  was  she  in  his  castle. 

Tanneguy  had  a  stone  room  with  groined  roof  upheld  by 


35*  THE   WANDERERS 

pillars.  Outside  its  windows,  cut  in  the  thick,  thick  wall, 
quivered  ivy  and  myrtle,  sang  the  birds,  hummed  the  bees, 
fell  the  gold  light  or  the  pleasant  rain.  By  this  room  was  a 
smaller  room,  and  in  this  was  built  a  furnace,  and  here 
tables  held  alembics  and  crucibles  with  a  many  other  curi 
ously  shaped  vessels,  large  and  small,  of  glass  or  metal. 
Vials  were  there,  and  chests  great  and  small,  balances,  and 
instruments  with  which  to  measure,  manage,  and  design, 
earths  and  ores  in  heaps,  and  water  falling  from  a  stone 
lion's  head  into  a  basin  curved  around  by  a  stone  gryphon. 
He  had  two  men  in  brown  who  fed  coals  to  his  furnace, 
and  for  a  helper  an  old,  skilled  man  in  green,  a  notable 
alchemist,  but  a  lesser  alchemist  than  Tanneguy  himself. 
All  this  room  held  in  a  red-brown  glow.  With  a  magic  hand 
and  eye,  it  fascinated  the  children  of  Beatrix,  often  let  to 
come  and  look  from  the  great  room  or  the  deep,  green 
garden.  In  the  greater  room  of  the  stone  pillars  were 
Tanneguy's  books.  His  time  considered,  he  had  many. 

He  did  not  love  books  nor  study  more  than  did  Beatrix 
whom  he  called  his  lady  and  who  was  now  his  guest.  To 
gether  they  loved  knowledge,  enquiry  into  the  source  and 
background  and  flow  of  things. 

He  was  prince  and  she  was  lady.  Abide  within  the  four 
corners  of  sundry  conventions,  acknowledge  various  un- 
freedoms,  and  for  the  rest,  so  long  as  jealousy,  envy,  and 
hatred  did  not  look  their  way,  they  might  bend,  in  this 
great  room,  over  one  book.  They  did  so;  they  loved,  but 
their  age  found  no  occasion  to  blame  their  love. 

These  were  their  personal  relations.  They  were  begin 
ning  —  after  far  wandering  in  lands  and  times  —  to  find 
that  one  was  reality,  but  two  illusion.  They  were  most 
happy  in  each  other's  company.  To  be  alone  together  in 


MOONLIGHT  353 

bower  or  garden,  or  in  this  room  of  knowledge  and  thought, 
had  an  ancient  root  of  sweetness,  a  fulness  of  rest  and  home. 
But  now  that  old  bliss  was  rising  into  wider  space.  They 
were  together  even  when,  to  eye  or  touch,  they  failed  of 
physical  nearness.  They  began  in  all  things  each  to  feel, 
to  perceive,  the  other.  Far  and  near,  then  and  now,  began 
to  fade,  divisions  and  limitations  to  grow  of  less  account. 
Once  these  had  seemed  unclimbable  walls,  unleapable 
gulfs.  Now  they  began  to  perceive  that  the  gulfs  were 
filling,  the  walls  crumbling.  ...  It  came  with  a  far-away 
perception  that  all  walls  and  gulfs  were  arbitrary,  tempo 
rary.  ...  In  the  meantime  it  was  sweet  to  work  together 
in  this  old  stone  room. 

Often  and  often  she  brought  the  two  children  with  her 
and  they  played  in  the  little  garden  without.  Sometimes 
Tanneguy  watched  her  playing  with  the  children;  some 
times  the  four  of  them  played.  She  taught  the  children 
well,  and  especially  did  she  teach  the  girl  Yolande.  She 
would  have  her  leap  and  run,  toss  and  catch  again,  ride 
and  swim  and  draw  a  bow.  She  would  have  her  look  and 
know  and  think,  perceive,  divine.  Came  to  Tanneguy's 
castle  a  wise  and  famed  Discoverer,  a  man  who  dreamed 
and  then  went  forth  to  find  how  the  dream  and  the  truth 
tallied,  who  fitted  ships  and  made  little  known  shores 
better  known,  and  unknown  places  known,  who  dreamed 
of  outer  ocean  and  how  to  reach  east  from  west  and  north 
from  south.  He  talked  in  hall  for  all  to  hear,  and  he 
talked  in  the  stone-lined  room  when  there  were  fewer  by. 
Tanneguy  and  Beatrix  sat  with  him  here,  listening  and 
questioning.  Beatrix  kept  by  her  the  child  Yolande,  will 
ing  enough  to  stay,  her  hand  in  her  mother's,  her  head 
against  her  mother's  knee. 


354  THE   WANDERERS 

Said  the  old  Discoverer:  "Lady,  bring  your  son  to  listen, 
who,  when  he  is  grown,  may  do  more  than  listen!  Your 
daughter  must  listen  to  that  which  will  content  her  with 
women's  world." 

But  Beatrix  said:  "Worlds  melt  into  one  another.  I 
would  have  her  listen  to  that  which  will  discontent  her!" 

Whereat  the  old  Discoverer  laughed,  and  said  that  he 
had  himself  found  discontent  valuable. 

Time  passed.  On  a  certain  day  Tanneguy  and  Beatrix 
watched  the  furnace  glow,  and  in  the  crucibles  metals 
soften.  The  men  in  brown,  the  old  man  in  green,  moved 
about;  there  were  red  and  amber  lights,  and  shadows 
formless  and  shadows  forked.  There  were  the  sound  of 
fire  and  the  sound  of  water,  and  the  show  of  strange  shapes 
of  glass  and  copper  vessels.  And,  a  presence  of  power, 
there  dwelled  with  the  rest  the  philosophical  notions  be 
hind  these  experiments,  these  endeavours  —  transmuta 
tion,  transformation,  prima  materia  and  the  shapes  it  took, 
and  why  it  took  the  shapes  —  law,  law,  and  what  or  who 
abode  in  law,  yet  could  and  did  make  slow  change  in  its 
body  and  its  ways.  .  .  . 

Tanneguy  and  Beatrix,  after  biding  long  in  the  room  of 
the  red  and  the  gold,  came  out  together  into  the  larger 
room.  Without  the  lancet  windows  the  rain  was  streaming. 
They  sat  upon  a  bench  before  an  oaken  stand  where  was 
spread  a  notably  made  copy  of  the  Book  of  Democritus. 
The  two  sat  down.  "Book  of  Democritus  —  Book  of 
Crates — "  said  Tanneguy.  "I  would  that  we  had  that 
Book  of  Chema  that  gives  its  name  to  our  art,  that  Messires 
the  fallen  angels  wrote  and  gave  to  the  women  they 
married!" 

The  rain  beat  against  the  windows.   In  this  room  was  a 


MOONLIGHT  355 

fire  of  wood.  It  sent  out  a  thin  smoke.  Light  and  shadow 
struggled  between  the  pillars  beneath  the  groined  roof. 
There  came  a  blast  of  wind. 

"We  two  in  a  cave  together — "  said  Beatrix. 

"We  two  in  a  forest  together — " 

"We  two  righting  each  the  other,  over  I  know  not  what. 
...  It  has  been  so  long  ago." 

"I  beat  down  and  wronged  you  — " 

"Oh,  but  I  wronged  you,  too — " 

"I  was  selfish,  fierce,  vain,  proud,  and  jealous — " 

"My  body  bound  my  mind.  I  was  more  weak  than 
water  ...  I  grew  false  to  myself  and  all  things." 

"There  was  no  true  love." 

"No  true  love." 

"Then  were  we  driven  apart.  .  .  .  We  were  taught,  or 
we  began  to  teach  ourselves — " 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Old,  dim  miseries.  .  .  .  Then  there  unfolded  a 
higher  world.  .  .  ." 

"Often  the  old  plucked  us  back.  .  .  .  But  we  guarded 
the  flame  with  our  hands." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  The  old  world  is  afire,  consumed  for  the 
new!" 

"That  is  the  meaning  of  sacrifice." 

"That  is  the  meaning  of  sacrifice." 

The  rain  dashed,  the  wind  beat,  the  firelight  danced. 

"Years  like  the  raindrops  or  the  sands  of  the  sea.  .  .  . 
Years  to  come  like  the  raindrops  or  the  sands  of  the  sea." 

"There  were  old  unions,  and  they  seemed  true.  .  .  .  The 
flutes  breathed,  the  drums  beat.  .  .  .  But  now  something 
stranger,  sweeter,  higher,  more  pervasive — " 

"  In  the  cave,  the  forest,  the  plain,  and  ancient  cities  we 
never  saw  that  we  were  steadfastly  one." 


356  THE   WANDERERS 

"  We  are  steadfastly  one.  .  .  .  O  may  that  which  is  faint 
knowledge  become  knowledge  shining  like  the  sun!" 

"Above,  around,  beneath,  and  through  these  modes  and 
accidents  — " 

"Till  modes  and  accidents  melt  away — " 

"And  the  true  gold  is  made." 

They  sat  before  the  fire  and  the  wind  beat  and  the  rain 
poured. 

The  next  day  was  high  and  clear.  In  the  garden  of  the 
house  that  Tanneguy  had  given  her,  Beatrix  and  the  two 
children  and  the  tiremaiden  Maeut  played  at  ball.  Came 
from  the  house  the  chamberlain  Enric.  "Lady,  my  lord 
has  sent  messengers  from  overseas!" 

She  went  indoors,  into  hall.  She  knew  the  messengers, 
Robert  of  the  Good  Lance,  a  doughty  knight,  Hugh  of  the 
Mount,  Conon  the  Clerk.  "Greeting,  Sir  Robert  and  Sir 
Hugh!  Greeting,  Conon  the  Clerk!  —  How  is  my  Lord 
Raymond?" 

"He  is  well,  lady,  and  in  high  fortune." 

"I  am  glad  that  he  is  well  and  in  high  fortune.  .  .  .  Did 
my  letters  come  to  him,  telling  him  of  war  against  lands 
and  castle?" 

"They  came,  lady." 

"And  that  Tanneguy  the  Prince  held  as  guests  in  all 
honour  me  and  the  children?" 

"Your  letters  came  in  safety,  lady.  He  sends  you  this 
letter  in  return." 

She  took  and  read,  then  sat  a  long  time  silent.  Then  she 
said,  "You  know,  Sir  Robert  and  Sir  Hugh,  and  Conon  the 
Clerk,  what  he  bids?" 

"Lady,  he  has  won  from  the  Greek  lands  and  villages 
and  a  town  and  a  huge  castle.  After  a^time  he  will  redeem 


MOONLIGHT  357 

his  vow  as  to  the  Holy  Sepulcher.  But  now  he  is  duke  of 
those  lands  and  would  establish  his  dukedom  in  strength 
and  in  glory.  For  his  fief  here,  it  is  given  in  my  charge,  who 
am  to  place  my  hands  for  him  in  the  hands  of  Count  Henry. 
But  for  you  and  his  children  Sir  Hugh  of  the  Mount  is  to 
bring  you  into  ship  at  Marseilles,  whence  sails  a  fleet  on 
All  Saints'  Day.  Sir  Hugh  and  Conon  the  Clerk  shall  re 
turn  with  you,  and  you  shall  have  chamberlain  and  steward 
and  what  maidens  you  will.  When  you  come  to  Constan 
tinople  many  will  meet  you  and  bring  you  and  his  children 
in  pomp  and  state  to  your  new  home  in  a  greater  castle 
than  you  have  ever  known,  where  is  wealth  you  have 
never  known.  His  son  he  will  train  to  win  kingdoms,  and 
his  daughter  he  will  marry  to  the  son  of  his  comrade-in 
arms,  Anseau  the  Red,  who  holds  the  neighbouring  city." 

Beatrix  stood  up.  She  spread  her  hands,  her  face  was 
pale  between  the  braids  of  hair.  "Sir  Robert  of  the  Good 
Lance  and  Sir  Hugh  of  the  Mount  and  Conon  the  Clerk, 
give  me  time  alone  in  which  to  look  at  this  you  bring — " 

That  was  afternoon.  Then  next  morn  came  Tanneguy. 
"Yes,  I  have  heard.  He  sent  me  words  of  thanks,  in  the 
tone  of  the  Emperor.  .  .  .  You  and  I  must  speak  alone." 

"Let  us  go  to  the  space  behind  the  cypresses." 

This  was  truly  where  none  might  see  or  hear.  Under 
foot  spread  short,  dry  grass,  and  around  went  a  wall, 
thick  and  high,  of  dark,  fine  leaves,  fine-woven  and  dark 
like  crape,  and  overhead  was  the  blue  vault.  There  were 
three  stones  placed  for  seats.  The  two  sat  down,  and 
she  folded  her  arms  upon  her  knees  and  laid  her  head 
upon  her  arms. 

"Beatrix,  if  you  will  say  'I  will  not  go!'  I  will  hold  you 
here  with  all  my  men  and  all  my  might!" 


358  THE   WANDERERS 

"That  kind  of  warrior  dies  in  you,  Tanneguy.  That 
kind  that  lives  in  him." 

"Long  years  I  might  hold  you  — !" 

"Long,  earthly  years  of  war  and  loss  and  death  of  lovers 
—  a-many  lovers  dying  for  one  pair. —  " 

"He  is  strong  with  Holy  Church,  and  I  am  a  man  sus 
pect.  But  with  compliances  and  gifts  I  might  buy — " 

"No,  no,  you  could  not!  Do  we  not  know  that  occasion 
is  wished  against  you?  .  .  .  Excommunication  for  me  and 
for  you,  and  over  your  lands  long  interdict.  .  .  .  Leaden 
pall  of  woe  and  anguish,  heavy  on  ten  thousand  folk  — " 

"Say  then  we  may  not  do  it.  What  then?" 

"O  Tanneguy,  are  we  not  bound  prisoners,  you  and  I?" 

The  wind  bent  the  grass  and  sighed  in  the  cypresses. 
Tanneguy  struck  his  hands  together.  "I  am  weary  of  the 
unfreedom  of  women!" 

"And  the  unfreedom  of  the  sons,  the  sons  of  women!" 

"Beatrix!   Beatrix!   What  shall  we  do?" 

"  I  shall  go  overseas.  With  Alard  and  Yolande,  I  shall 
go  overseas." 

"And  I,  Beatrix?   Shall  I  not  take  ship  and  follow?" 

"Ah,  no!  Ah,  no!" 

"Yes!" 

"No!" 

"You  will  live  and  die  far,  far  away!" 

"What  is  to  live  —  what  is  to  die?  .  .  .  Yet  a  knife  turns 
in  my  heart!" 

"And  in  mine." 

"Many  a  thing  there  is  in  this  world  that  is  barred  away 
from  light.  .  .  .  Tanneguy,  Tanneguy!  It  is  the  task  and 
the  path,  the  ship  to  be  built  and  the  land  to  be  found!" 

"Freedom.     ." 


MOONLIGHT  359 

"That  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  knight.    If  you  are  a  man 

—  if    you   are   a  woman  —  that    is   what  it   is   to  be   a 
knight." 

"Yea,  in  truth.  .  .  .  But  Beatrix,  now,  the  knife  in  my 
heart!" 

"And  in  mine!" 

The  winds  were  stilled,  the  cypresses,  like  a  cloud  ring, 
kept  out  the  world.  The  blue  arch  above  was  no  tale 
bearer.  They  wept  in  each  other's  arms. 

Tanneguy  the  Prince  made  princely  entertainment  for 
Sir  Robert  of  the  Good  Lance  and  Sir  Hugh  of  the  Mount 
and  Conon  the  Clerk.  He  wove  wreaths  of  knightliness 
and  with  them  adorned  the  ways  that  Beatrix  trod  to  the 
day  of  All  Saints.  Came  about  her  Amaury  and  Adelaide 

—  Balthasar  and  Berengere  —  Barral  and  Constance  — 
Guibour  and  Melisande  —  Roland  and  Blanche  —  Thierry 
and  Laure  —  Aldhelm  and  Eleanor — Raimbauld  and  Ti- 
phaine.  Again  was  the  garden,  but  an  autumn  garden. 
Again  was  moonlight,  and  the  nightingales'  singing,  but 
now  they  sang  ancient  love  and  ancient  pain.   The  leaves 
coloured,  the    leaves  turned  brown  and  sere,  the  leaves 
fell 

A  train  of  knights  accompanied  Hugh  of  the  Mount  and 
the  Lady  Beatrix  and  the  two  children  to  the  port  where 
waited  the  fleet.  Tanneguy  was  with  them,  and  rode  beside 
Beatrix.  All  came  upon  a  midday  to  the  great  inn  of  the 
port.  In  the  morning  the  ships  would  sail.  Alone  in  a 
room  of  the  inn,  red  from  the  setting  sun,  Tanneguy  and 
Beatrix  said  farewell. 

"What  we  live  for  now  is  to  make  the  gold — " 
"  To  build  the  world  where  love  lives  as  one  — " 
In  the  red  morn  of  All  Saints'  Day  the  great  ship  sailed. 


360  THE   WANDERERS 

Tanneguy  the  Prince  watched  from  the  sea  strand.  It  went 
forth  under  sails  like  stairs  of  clouds,  it  dwindled  until  it 
was  only  a  star  in  the  east.  Then  distance  came  between, 
and  only  faith  could  know  that  there  was  there  a  star. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THEKLA  AND   EBERHARD 

EBERHARD,  Albrecht,  and  Ulrich,  wandering  students, 
came  into  Hauptberg  on  a  winter  noon,  and  knowing  the 
town,  made  straight  for  the  Golden  Eagle,  an  inn  loved 
by  all  vagabond  students,  young  and  not  so  young,  "new 
men,"  "poets"  as  against  schoolmen,  lovers  of  the  pa 
gan  knowledge,  droppers  of  corrosives  upon  the  existing 
order,  prophets  of  a  world  behind  this-world,  the  hu 
manist  left.  The  Golden  Eagle  stood  in  an  angle  of  the 
town  wall,  high  red-roofed,  shining-windowed,  kept  by 
Hans  Knapp  and  Bertha  his  wife.  The  December  sun 
made  vivid  all  the  red  roofs  of  Hauptberg,  it  turned  the 
huge  cathedral  into  something  lighter  than  stone,  it  tossed 
nodding  sheaves  of  light  among  the  prosperous  burghers' 
houses,  it  overwrote  the  walls  of  a  monastery  of  Augustin- 
ian  Hermits,  it  added  scroll  and  circle  of  its  own  to  the  orna 
mented  storied  front  of  the  mighty  guild  hall,  and  gar 
mented  the  winter  trees  in  the  university  close.  The  bright 
and  nipping  air  put  ripe  apple  colour  into  the  faces  of  the 
various  street-farers.  These  moved  quickly,  with  bodies 
slightly  slanted,  arms  folded;  if  they  were  well-to-do,  in 
woolen  and  furred  mantles.  The  poor  also  moved  quickly, 
with  unmantled  shoulders  shrugged  together.  The  town 
musicians  were  somewhere  at  practice.  One  heard  a  great 
drum  and  horns. 

In   a  number  of  the  street-farers  showed  a  degree  of 


362  THE   WANDERERS 

excitement,  an  eagerness  to  exchange  speech  and  views 
with  acquaintances,  or  even  with  non-acquaintances.  This 
itch  was  evident  in  many  who  encountered  the  incoming, 
wandering  students.  "From  Wittenberg  way?  And  what 
is  the  news?" 

Eberhard  moved,  a  sinewy,  bronzed,  square-faced,  blue- 
eyed  fellow,  in  a  green  jerkin  and  a  brown  cloak.  Ulrich  was 
solid  and  blond,  to  the  eye  a  benevolent  young  burgher, 
and  to  better  apprehension  a  ramping  dare-devil.  Albrecht, 
slight,  dark,  and  quick  as  a  lizard,  was  the  "poet,"  with 
emphasis.  He  carried  upon  his  back  Virgil  and  Terence 
and  Ovid,  Cicero,  and  Seneca  and  Juvenal  bound  in  a 
pack  with  Averroes,  Avicenna,  and  Avicebron,  and  when 
he  was  not  in  earnest  made  good  love  songs  and  praised 
the  vine.  When  he  was  in  earnest  he  treated  with  vitriol 
the  garden  of  Holy  Church,  much  overgrown  with  weeds. 

The  three  were  in  wild  spirits.  They  had  news  and 
they  gave  it.  Some  who  received  were  terribly  angered 
thereby,  and  some  took  with  more  or  less  evident  pleasure, 
with  a  kind  of  half-frightened  exultation.  One  or  two  said 
that  wandering  students  were  bred  by  the  father  of  lies.  A 
student  from  the  university  saying  this  more  loudly  than 
was  prudent,  Ulrich,  moving  amiably  forward,  took  him 
by  his  girdle,  swung  him  overhead,  and  set  him  —  plank! 
—  in  the  gutter  skimmed  with  ice.  A  brawl  threatened, 
Ulrich  ready  enough  to  stay  for  it.  But  Albrecht  cried 
out  that  he  was  in  ecstasy,  that  he  had  a  vision  of  the 
Golden  Eagle,  that  Hans  Knapp  was  putting  a  log  on  the 
fire,  Frau  Knapp  drawing  the  ale,  and  Gretchen  Knapp 
setting  a  pasty  on  the  table!  So  they  swung  from  the 
drenched  student  and  his  somewhat  timid  backers.  They 
had  made  miles  that  morning,  and  hungered  and  thirsted, 


THEKLA   AND  EBERHARD  363 

and  they  loved  the  Golden  Eagle.  That  is  Albrecht  and 
Ulrich  loved  it;  Eberhard  was  a  stranger  in  Hauptberg. 

Here  was  the  steep  red  roof,  and  the  swinging,  creaking 
Eagle  sign,  and  the  benches  in  the  sun  beneath  the  eaves, 
and  the  open  door,  and  out  of  the  door  coming  a  ruddy 
light,  a  good  smell,  and  a  sound  of  singing. 

"That,"  said  Albrecht,  "is  the  voice  of  Conrad  Devil- 
son!" 

"Where  Conrad  is,  is  Walther  von  Langen." 

"Good  meeting  with  them  both!" 

Conrad  Devilson  beat  with  his  tankard  upon  the  table 
of  the  Golden  Eagle. 

"That  day  of  joy, 
That  lovely  day, 
When  Aristotle, 
Thomas  Aquinas, 
Albertus  Magnus, 
William  of  Occam, 
Duns  Scotus, 
Peter  the  Lombard. 
The  monk, 
The  priest, 
John  Tetzel, 

The  Archbishop  of  Mainz, 
The  bull  Exurge  Domine,  and 
The  Power  of  Rome 
Shall  pass  away!" 

He  had  a  voice  that  boomed  and  reverberated.  In  came 
the  three  wandering  students.  "Why,  here  are  others  of 
the  time's  darlings!"  cried  Walther  von  Langen. 

Conrad  Devilson  put  down  his  tankard  and  got  to  his 
feet.  "Eberhard,  Eberhard!  Welcome  to  Hauptberg!" 

He  left  the  table  to  put  his  arm  around  Eberhard.  "This 
is  the  man  who  saved  me  from  wolves  in  the  Black  Forest! 


364  THE   WANDERERS 

—  Then  sat  we  down  in  the  snow  and  re-ordered  the 
round  world!" 

"I  remember,"  said  Eberhard,  uthat  your  world  turned 
from  east  to  west!  —  Have  you  heard  the  Wittenberg 
news?" 

Hans  Knapp  had  a  huge,  great  fire.  His  ale  was  famous, 
and  so  were  Frau  Knapp's  pasties,  one  of  which  Gretchen 
now  set  upon  the  table.  Gretchen  had  a  warm,  sidelong 
glance,  and  cheeks  and  lips  like  roses.  She  was  not  so 
young  as  once  she  had  been,  and  she  knew  how  to  like  all 
wandering  students  and  to  keep  all  at  arms'  length.  Now 
she  went  about  the  inn  room  like  a  large  and  cheerful  rose. 
The  fire  roared  in  the  chimney  —  entered  other  patrons  of 
the  Golden  Eagle.  And  all  were  men  of  the  new  times  — 
of  the  times  that  were  growing  newer  and  newer,  the  old 
passing  faster  and  faster  into  the  new.  A  great  part  of  the 
old  resisted,  held  fiercely  back  with  cries  and  objurgations. 
But  those  who  came  about  the  Golden  Eagle  were  of  the 
new,  with  its  virtues  and  its  faults.  Hans  Knapp,  grey- 
bearded,  huge-paunched,  merry-eyed,  had  himself  always 
stepped  out  with  the  new.  The  fire  roared  in  the  chimney, 
the  Wittenberg  news  flew  around  the  room,  danced  in  the 
corners  and  in  the  middle.  Arose  loud  discussion,  the 
friendliness  of  substantial  agreement,  the  spice  of  acci 
dental  difference.  Speculation,  jubilation,  mounted  high 
and  mounted  higher  —  men's  arms  were  over  one  another's 
shoulders,  eager  faces  craned,  eyes  sparkled.  The  Golden 
Eagle  knew  again  the  roaring  blast  of  hope,  excitement, 
the  good,  salt  taste,  the  rapid  motion  of  mental  adventure. 
Happy  were  the  five  wandering  students.  .  .  . 

Said  Conrad  Devilson,  "Let  us  go  tell  Gabriel  Mayr 
andThekla!" 


THEKLA   AND   EBERHARD  365 

The  short  afternoon  was  now  at  mid-stroke.  Gabriel 
Mayr  lived  in  a  small,  red  and  brown  house  set  between  a 
wood-carver's  and  a  goldsmith's.  Around  the  house  went 
a  ribbon  of  garden,  with  currant  bushes  and  cherry  trees. 
Under  a  cherry  tree  in  summer,  in  the  chimney  corner  in 
winter,  sat  Gabriel  Mayr,  about  him  all  the  books  he  could 
buy  or  borrow.  He  was  poor,  but  since  his  fifteenth  year 
he  had  first  purchased  knowledge  and  then  purchased 
bodily  food.  Now  he  was  eighty. 

The  Golden  Eagle  had  been  growing  too  heated.  The 
crisp,  clean  cold  without  refreshed,  cleared  heads.  Conrad 
Devilson,  Walther  von  Langen,  Eberhard,  Albrecht,  and 
Ulrich  danced  as  they  moved  up  the  narrow  street.  Eber 
hard  made-believe  to  play,  viol-wise,  upon  his  staff.  They 
came  to  the  small  red  and  brown  house. 

"Is  this  the  place?"  asked  Eberhard.  "I  used  to  dream, 
in  Erfurt,  of  Gabriel  Mayr!  So  much  work  has  he  done,  in 
his  time,  for  the  new,  splendid  world!" 

Conrad  Devilson  knocked,  'Hola!  Hola!  Wandering 
students!" 

The  door  opened.  Thekla  Mayr  said,  "Enter,  wander 
ing  students!" 

She  stood,  slender,  between  fair  and  brown,  in  a  red 
gown  of  her  own  weaving  and  fashioning.  "Welcome, 
Conrad  Devilson!  Welcome,  Walther  von  Langen!  Wel 
come  to  Hauptberg,  Albrecht  and  Ulrich!  Welcome — " 

"Thekla,  this  is  Eberhard  Gerson  who  made  and  en 
graved  the  pictures  for  'The  Silver  Bridge.'  With  Ulrich 
and  Albrecht  he  left  Wittenberg  yesterday." 

"  Welcome,  Eberhard  Gerson ! " 

She  went  before  them  into  a  room  where  a  fire  burned, 
and  in  a  great  chair,  in  its  light,  sat  Gabriel  Mayr.  "  Father, 


366  THE   WANDERERS 

here  are  wandering  students!  Here  are  Conrad  Devilson 
and  Walther  von  Langen,  and  Albrecht  and  Ulrich  and 
Eberhard  Gerson  who  made  the  pictures  for  'The  Silver 
Bridge!'  And  they  have  news  from  Wittenberg." 

Gabriel  Mayr  roused  himself.  "Wait,  young  men.  .  .  . 
I  am  old.  ...  It  takes  time  to  get  back  into  the  blowing 
wind  and  the  moving  water."  He  pressed  his  hands  against 
his  brows,  shook  himself  in  the  cloak  that  was  wrapped 
about  him.  He  gathered  energy  as  one  blows  coals  with  his 
breath.  The  coals  glowed,  his  eyes  brightened,  he  straight 
ened  in  his  chair,  back  in  good  measure  came  the  old  po 
tency.  "Wittenberg!  Who  comes  from  Wittenberg!  What 
is  Martin  Luther  doing  now?" 

"He  has  taken  the  Pope's  bull  in  his  hands  and  burned 
it  outside  the  town  gate!" 

"Ha-ah!  Did  he  that?"  Gabriel  Mayr  brought  his  hands 
together.  "Thekla,  Thekla!  Do  you  hear  a  world  gate 
clanging?" 

He  sat  in  his  great  chair,  about  him  the  young  men,  the 
wandering  students.  He  wore  a  black  cap,  and  from  under 
neath  his  white  hair  streamed  and  mingled  with  the  long 
white  hair  of  his  beard.  His  features  were  bloodless,  his  eyes 
sunken,  but  very  bright.  He  looked  a  prophet,  such  an 
one  as,  down  in  Italy,  Michael  Angelo  was  painting.  His 
daughter  stood  with  her  arm  resting  upon  the  back  of  his 
chair. 

Mayr  spoke  on:  "I  knew  that  the  vehemence  of  his  on 
going  would  become  to  that  young  man  an  urgent  daemon! 
Now  he  cannot  stop.  He  is  Samson!  He  will  carry  away 
the  gates  upon  his  shoulders  and  the  young  and  strong  will 
pour  in  upon  a  decrepit  city.  ...  It  is  well!  It  is  written! 
The  city  has  become  drunken  and  witless.  Yet  will  some 


THEKLA   AND   EBERHARD  367 

flowers  be  trodden  underfoot  and  works  of  art  perish.  .  .  . 
And  he  is  Samson,  he  is  not  Socrates.  .  .  .  Yet,  Thekla, 
Thekla!  We  must  rejoice!  We  make  a  half-step  toward 
freedom!" 

Two  of  the  wandering  students  cried  out  upon  that. 
"A  half-step!  Do  you  not  call  it  more  than  that,  Master 
Gabriel?" 

Mayr  raised  and  regarded  his  finely  shaped,  thin, 
corded,  sensitive  hands.  "Eighty  years  have  I  lived.  I 
remember  years  when  it  seemed  that  the  snail  and  the 
world  raced  toward  freedom,  and  the  snail  appeared  to 
win.  And  I  remember  years  when  it  seemed  that  the  world 
began  to  say,  'We  shall  not  get  there  unless  we  move 
faster!'  And  now  I  remember  years  when  the  snail  seems 
left  behind.  And  for  a  long  while  now  we  have  seemed  to 
move  faster  and  faster.  .  .  .  The  ice  is  breaking  and  thaw 
ing  in  the  springtime.  .  .  .  Well,  I  worship  before  the  spring 
time!  But  Freedom  is  a  great  word  and  holds  all  other 
words.  Pour  into  it  all  that  you  know  or  guess  of  freedom, 
and  yet  it  is  not  full." 

Eberhard  spoke.  "This  is  a  cool  and  brimming  pailful, 
Master  Gabriel!  Every  pailful  makes  more  of  the  desert 
bloom." 

As  he  spoke  he  was  looking  at  Thekla.  She  was  looking 
at  him.  Their  eyes  were  talking  —  pure  and  sincere  words 
of  fellowship. 

"You  are  right  in  that,  Eberhard  Gerson,"  said  the  old 
man.  "Every  pailful  makes  more  of  the  desert  bloom!" 

Thekla  spoke.  "It  has  been  believed  that  God  was  not 
to  be  come  at  save  through  officers  and  courtiers.  .  .  . 
What  is  here  is  that  it  is  seen  that  no  other  human  being 
stands  between  a  human  being  and  God." 


3 68  THE   WANDERERS 

"So,"  said  Gabriel,  and  "So,"  echoed  the  wandering 
students. 

"Each  growing  straight  to  God,  without  running  to  any 
man's  door  for  permission.  .  .  .  Much  is  wrapped  up," 
said  Thekla,  "in  that  bundle!" 

"Aye,  truly !'» 

Thekla  stood  beside  Gabriel's  chair.  Her  hands  were 
young  where  his  were  old.  The  blue  veins  did  not  rise,  her 
hands  were  not  worn  thin  nor  corded  like  his.  But  they 
were  made  like  Gabriel's,  sensitive  and  most  expressive 
like  Gabriel's.  They  commanded  the  eye  as  did  his,  they 
had  their  own  intelligence.  Now  they  were  in  motion.  "All 
equal,"  said  Thekla  ...  "A  republic." 

"In  religion,  the  schools,  art  and  knowledge!" 

"The  blowing  wind  will  not  bend  the  Black  Forest  and 
leave  the  Hartz  Forest  unbowed.  Spring  will  not  come  to 
the  Hartz  Wood  and  leave  the  Black  Wood  bare.  Without 
Pope  .  .  .  without  Emperor!" 

"Come  back,  Thekla,  from  far  away!" 

"Every  slave  freed  — " 

"Comeback!  Comeback!" 

"Dawn  for  women  —  dawn  for  women!" 

Above  her  moving  hands  Thekla's  face  flushed  like  a 
rose.  "As  the  Church  to  all,  so  have  been  men  to  women! 
.  .  .  The  Church  might  have  become  just  from  within,  but 
does  not,  and  the  folk  break  down  the  gates  of  the  city 
and  take  their  own!  But  now,  surely,  the  freeing  folk 
will  free  on  and  on!  And  surely  men  will  become  just 
from  within!"  She  raised  her  hands.  "I  shall  go  about 
the  world  as  I  will,  and  I  shall  build  my  ships  and  sail 
therein!  .  .  .  And  my  sister  Elsa  will  come  from  her  nun 
nery!" 


THEKLA  AND  EBERHARD  369 

Gabriel  Mayr  nodded  his  head.  But  he  sat  in  his  great 
chair  with  sinews  grown  sunken  and  unbraced.  His  eyes 
had  lost  point,  they  seemed  the  eyes  of  one  who  contem 
plates  a  dream,  recurrent  but  unsubstantial.  Yet  he  nodded 
his  head.  .  .  . 

But  Walther  von  Langen  said  roughly:  "I  am  fond  of 
Thekla,  save  when  she  speaks  without  knowledge!" 

"No  harvest  ripens  for  man,"  said  Albrecht,  "but 
woman  may  gather  a  good  windfall  in  her  apron!" 

Quoth  Ulrich:  "When  the  house  is  afire  the  house 
father  brings  out  the  house-mother  no  less  than  himself! 
—  But  that  does  not  mean  that  she  then  goes  about  to  set 
up  for  herself!" 

"Women  are  women,  but  Thekla  has  lived  beside  a 
thinker  of  long  and  bold  thoughts.  Thekla  cannot  help 
herself!"  Conrad  Devilson  lifted  one  of  her  long,  brown 
tresses.  "Remain  fair,  Thekla,  and  all  women!  Pick  up 
in  your  apron  the  windfalls,  and  welcome!  But  we  own  and 
shake  the  tree." 

Ulrich  and  Albrecht,  Conrad  Devilson  and  Walther  von 
Langen  struck  hand  on  hand  or  feet  against  the  ground. 
"So  it  is!"  they  cried.  "So  it  is!" 

Thekla  drew  the  tress  of  hair  from  Conrad  Devilson's 
hand.  She  stood  with  eyelids  drooped,  her  lips  curved  in 
a  slight  smile. 

The  old  man  who  seemed  to  make  the  clasp  of  the  ring 
shook  his  head  and  sighed.  "This  matter  of  Owning  is  a 
long  story,  and  events  are  yet  to  come.  ...  I  should  like  to 
see  Albrecht  Diirer  try  his  hand  on  that.  .  .  .  Thekla,  give 
me  wine." 

Thekla  left  his  side,  then  returned  with  a  wheaten  wafer 
and  a  cup  of  wine.  The  old  man  ate  and  drank.  She 


370  THE  WANDERERS 

mended  the  fire  for  him,  took  away  the  cup  and  plate,  and, 
returning,  seated  herself  upon  a  cushion  on  the  floor  by  his 
side.  "Martin  Luther  has  burned  the  Pope's  bull.  Now 
will  the  Pope  bid  the  Emperor  to  put  him  under  ban. 
Maybe  he  will  be  slain  as  a  heretic,  and  all  persecuted  who 
look  to  freedom.  Maybe  he  will  find  friends  in  high  places, 
and  the  Emperor  will  check  the  Pope.  Maybe,  with  naught 
to  aid  but  stronger  light,  he  must  fight  both  Emperor  and 
Pope.  Maybe,  aroused,  the  people  will  go  with  him.  Maybe 
all  will  see  light  — all  — all!" 

Eberhard,  who  had  been  silent  before  now,  spoke. 
"If  but  many  see,  then  will  the  wheel  go  toward  the  light. 
.  .  .  I  do  not  think  it  is  more  than  twilight. . . .  And,  maiden, 
I  believe  not  that  man  owns  the  tree,  nor  at  any  time  has 
been  wholly  the  shaker  thereof!" 

Thekla  turned  and  looked  at  him.  "I  sinned  and  you 
sinned,  and  yet  will  we  sin.  .  .  .  But  now  we  know  what 
either  wishes,  and  lo,  it  is  one  wish,  and  wished  by  one 
Self!" 

Said  Conrad  Devilson,  "What  do  you  two  speak  about, 
there  by  yourselves?" 

He  and  Albrecht  and  Ulrich  and  Walther  von  Langen 
had  risen  from  settle  and  stool.  "We  must  fare  back  to 
the  Golden  Eagle!  Heinrich  and  Karl  and  Johann  come 
in  to  Hauptberg  to-night.  ...  Ah  ho!  Martin  Luther  has 
burned  the  Pope's  bull!" 

Without  the  small  red  and  brown  house,  across  the  rib 
bon  of  brown  garden,  in  the  narrow  street  red-flushed  from 
the  red  west,  three  fell  to  singing,  — 

"  Down  goes  the  old  world, 
Up  comes  the  new! 
Death  on  a  pale  horse 
Rides  down  the  proud  — " 


THEKLA  AND   EBERHARD  371 

They  sang  with  enthusiasm,  but  their  ardour  had 
youth  and  geniality.  They  were  wandering  students,  hu 
manists,  not  reforming  monks. 

Eberhard  and  Conrad  Devilson  did  not  sing,  but  talked. 
They  dropped  a  little  behind  the  big,  fronting  voices. 
Whatever  was  the  one,  Eberhard  was  something  more 
than  wandering  student  —  a  man  beginning  to  work  with 
a  mind-moved  hand.  He  walked  now  with  a  lit  face. 
"They  live  there  alone  together —  the  old  man  and  his 
daughter?" 

"Aye.  He  taught  Thekla  all  he  knew,  as  though  she 
were  a  boy.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say  that  women  are  not  teach 
able!  But  they  must  keep  knowledge  at  home  when  they 
have  got  it.  ...  He  is  past  earning  now.  She  embroiders 
arms  for  the  noble  upon  velvet,  silk,  and  linen,  and  so 
earns  for  both.  He  has  another  daughter  —  Elsa  —  in  a 
convent  twenty  miles  from  here." 

The  wandering  students  were  singing,  — 

"Round  turns  the  wheel, 
The  wheel  turns  round! 
Comes  down  the  lord  of  all, 
The  wheel  grows  an  orb — " 

Now  they  were  before  the  Golden  Eagle,  and  out  of  door 
and  window  floated  voices  of  Heinrich,  Karl,  and  Johann. 

That  was  December.  In  February  Charles  the  Fifth 
made  to  be  drawn  an  edict  against  Luther.  The  Diet 
sitting  at  Worms  refused  assent.  April,  and  Luther,  at 
Worms,  stood  in  his  own  defence,  spoke  with  a  great,  plain 
eloquence.  Eloquence  never  saved  a  man  against  whom 
set  the  main  current  of  his  time.  The  main  current  of  his 
time  going  with  him,  Martin  Luther  rode  in  a  seaworthy 


372  THE   WANDERERS 

boat.  Storms  there  were,  thunder  and  lightning,  tempest 
and  a  lashed  ocean  —  but  the  boat  rode.  May,  and  Pope 
and  Emperor  threatened  that  revolt  and  all  who  had 
share  therein  with  fire  in  this  world  and  in  the  world  here 
after.  The  revolt  made  itself  a  stronger  current. 

In  May,  Eberhard  Gerson  came  again  to  Hauptberg. 
He  slept  at  the  Golden  Eagle,  and  in  the  bright,  exquisite 
morning  sought  out  the  house  where  dwelled  Gabriel  Mayr 
and  Thekla.  The  cherry  trees  were  at  late  bloom,  and  the 
morning  breeze  shook  down  the  white  petals.  The  house 
seemed  to  stand  among  fountains. 

Three  times  since  that  first  December  afternoon  had 
Eberhard  opened  the  gate,  come  in  between  the  cherry 
trees. 

Gabriel  sat  in  his  armchair  under  the  largest  tree,  be 
neath  his  feet  a  cushion,  about  his  shrunken  frame,  for  all 
the  May  weather,  a  furred  cloak,  gift  of  old  pupils.  His 
eyes  were  closed,  he  was  sleeping  in  the  sun.  Thekla  sat 
beside  him,  embroidering  upon  a  scarf  arms  of  the  greatest 
Hauptberg  family.  When  she  saw  Eberhard  she  put  her 
finger  to  her  lips.  He  stood  beneath  the  blooming  trees; 
they  gazed  each  upon  the  other  for  a  moment,  then  she 
rose,  put  aside  the  embroidery  frame,  and,  stepping  lightly, 
moved  from  the  sleeping  old  man.  At  some  distance, 
among  the  currant  bushes,  stood  a  wooden  bench.  She 
moved  to  this,  and  Eberhard  followed.  Here  they  might 
mark  the  sleeper  through  an  opening,  but  for  the  rest 
the  green  bushes  closed  them  round.  The  air  was  full 
of  a  subdued,  murmurous  noise,  bees,  twittering  birds, 
sounds  from  the  woodcarver's  house  of  the  woodcarver's 
trade. 

"Came  one  yesterday,"  she  said,  "who  told  us  that  now 


THEKLA  AND  EBERHARD  373 

they  are  preaching  against  monastic  vows.  He  said  that 
what  is  preached  is  printed,  and  that  it  steals  from  over 
head  like  the  wind  into  cloisters,  that  monks  and  nuns  read. 
.  .  .  Oh,  that  it  might  unbar  the  door  for  Elsa!" 

"You  love  Elsa  so." 

"She  is  younger  than  me.  She  is  unhappy  —  Elsa,  my 
sister!" 

"How  was  it,  Thekla,  that  your  sister  went  there?" 

Thekla  gazed  at  the  tree  heads  against  the  blue  sky. 
"Ah,  cannot  you  remember  a  day  when  it  seemed  wisest 
and  fairest  to  worship  so  —  from  a  cell  ?  She  dreamed  that, 
and  being  young,  she  went.  Then  her  inner  need  travelled 
its  own  path,  and  it  was  hardly  that  path.  But  her  body  is 
held  there,  though  her  mind  has  gone  forth.  All  the  cus 
toms  of  the  place  clutch  and  bind  too  closely  the  growing 
being.  .  .  .  She  would  forth  if  she  could." 

"Who  may  know  where  all  this  deep  rebellion  will  stop? 
Thekla,  I  see  a  wider  circle." 

"Oh,  and  I!  ...  There  is  no  stopping." 

Behind  the  small  red  and  brown  house  a  cock  crew. 
The  two  listened.  "The  crowing  of  a  cock.  .  .  .  When  I 
hear  it  from  far  away,"  said  Eberhard,  "it  pleases  me  so! 
It  seems  the  oldest,  oldest  sound.  .  .  ." 

"He  is  a  beautiful  cock.   His  name  is  Welcome." 

"Welcome.  .  .?" 

"Yes.  ...  It  is  an  old,  old  sound." 

The  currant  bushes  almost  closed  them  round.  Above 
the  currants  showed  the  snowy  cherry  trees,  and  above 
the  cherry  trees  the  high,  steep,  red  roofs  of  neighbouring 
houses.  Thekla  and  Eberhard  sat  very  still.  "It  seems  to 
me,"  said  Eberhard,  "that  we  have  known  each  other 
the  longest  time  — " 


374  THE   WANDERERS 

"The  longest  time.  ...  I  think  that  we  live  always,  and 
only  fail  to  remember." 

"Known  and  loved.  .  .  .  What  are  we  going  to  do  now, 
Thekla?" 

She  looked  at  the  sky  above  the  trees.  "  We  are  going 
to  free  ourselves." 

"Free  ourselves." 

"Yes.    Free  you  —  free  me." 

"  I  am  only  beginning  to  earn.  I  have  nothing  but  what 
I  earn.  I  have  letters  telling  me  of  good  work  to  be  had  at 
the  next  Court.  I  may  paint  there  the  Prince's  portrait 
and  those  of  his  children.  Moreover,  he  would  have  draw 
ings  of  Christ's  Parables  that  in  woodcuts  may  be  scattered 
like  seed  over  the  land.  .  .  .  But  it  is  far  from  Hauptberg. 
...  I  know  not  when  I  shall  see  you  again." 

She  looked  at  him.  In  her  eyes  shone  tears,  but  in  her 
countenance  something  smiled.  "Have  we  not  to  learn 
that  everywhere  we  see  each  other?" 

Gabriel  Mayr  called  her  from  under  the  cherry  tree. 

That  year  Eberhard  the  artist  did  good  and  true  work. 
He  painted  the  portraits  of  the  Prince  and  his  children,  he 
saw  put  forth  in  woodcuts,  far  and  wide,  ten  great  draw 
ings  of  Christ's  Parables. 

A  year  and  more,  and  he  came  again  to  the  red  and 
brown  house  between  the  woodcarver's  and  the  gold 
smith's.  This  time  the  cherries  were  ripe,  the  birds  were 
pecking  them.  This  time  Gabriel  lay  abed,  within  the 
house.  He  spoke  to  Eberhard  standing  beside  him.  "My 
ship  is  tugging  at  her  binding  ropes.  .  .  .  Thekla  has 
something  to  say  to  you.  It  is  about  Elsa.  I  approve.  I 
cannot  talk  any  more  to-day." 

Thekla  gave  him  water  and  wine.    A  girl  of  twelve,  an 


THEKLA  AND   EBERHARD  375 

orphan  for  whom  they  made  a  home,  took  her  place  beside 
the  bed.  Thekla  and  Eberhard,  moving  to  the  outer  room, 
talked  beside  the  window.  "Through  the  land,  here  and 
there  and  everywhere,  monks  are  coming  from  their  cells. 
Here  and  there  a  nun,  stronger  than  the  rest,  comes  forth. 
...  I  went  to  hear  Martin  Luther  speaking  in  the  market 
place.  'Ah/  he  said,  'Come  forth,  monk,  who  seest  now 
that,  seeking  God,  thou  mistookest  for  him  an  earthly 
giant  I  And  come  forth,  nun,  and  stand  side  by  side  with 
thy  brother  the  monk!  Look  within,  and  see  the  one  God, 
who  wills  that  both  be  free!"' 

"Yes,"  said  Eberhard,  "I  have  heard  him  preach 
that." 

"I  have  been  to  the  convent.  I  have  seen  Elsa.  She 
would  leave  her  cell  and  come  freely  home,  to  live  and 
work  hereafter  as  need  will  have  it.  But  she  is  not  where 
she  can  say,  'I  mistook  myself:  Let  me  go  at  will  as  I  came 
at  will!'" 

"No." 

"No.  And  my  father  is  an  old,  dying  man.  And  we 
have  not  strong  friends,  as  strength  goes.  The  changing 
time  is  yet  so  young,  and  the  old  time  a  giant — " 

"Wait  a  little  while— " 

"So  I  think.  .  .  .  We  will  be  patient,  wreathed  and 
twined  with  patience.  .  .  .  When  will  the  all  say  to  the  all, 
'Freedom!'" 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  went,  the  white-clad 
winter  drove  by  in  her  sledge,  the  days  grew  longer,  the 
sun  more  strong,  the  frogs  were  heard  in  their  marshes,  the 
willows  greened,  the  birds  returned.  In  that  year  matters 
in  the  world  had  moved  so  fast  that  it  seemed  that  many 
years  must  have  been  bound  in  the  one  sheaf. 


376  THE   WANDERERS 

On  a  day  in  May,  Eberhard  again  approached  the  red 
and  brown  house  among  the  cherry  trees.  Within  the  gate 
he  saw  the  snow  petals  drift  down  and  the  bright  butter 
flies  and  the  humming  bees.  Upon  the  doorstep  sat  Thekla. 
"He  is  asleep.  The  ship  is  almost  out  of  harbour." 

Eberhard  sat  beside  her.  "I  could  not  sleep,  and  I  rose 
while  it  was  still  grey.  I  had  pencils  and  my  drawing- 
block,  and  I  fell  to  a  drawing  of  old  Babylon  for  the 
Prophets  series.  .  .  .  Thekla,  do  you  think  that  we  ever 
lived  in  old  Babylon?" 

"Yes,  we  lived  there " 

"So  I  must  think.  ...  I  drew  with  the  skill  I  have  to 
day,  but  I  drew  your  face  in  a  temple  room." 

"Where  have  we  not  lived?  We  are  all  life." 

They  sat  still  in  the  sunshine.  The  bees  hummed,  the 
butterflies  glanced,  the  breeze  shook  down  the  cherry 
snow.  A  bird  arose  on  glancing  wings  and  flew  into  the 
blue.  Thekla  spoke.  "Elsa— " 

"Here  am  I  to  help  you,"  said  Eberhard. 

On  such  and  such  a  day  walked  Thekla  from  Hauptberg. 
The  day  was  passing  sweet,  the  land  at  mental  war,  but 
not  at  that  gross  war  which  made  a  country  road  no  better 
for  a  woman  than  any  hungry  jungle.  There  was  no  reason 
why  one  who  was  strong  and  who  toiled  for  a  living  should 
not  fare  afoot  from  town  to  outlying  hamlet  or  country 
house.  So  Thekla  went  on,  through  the  bright  spring  air, 
and  with  a  hopeful  spring  in  her  heart.  "Elsa!  Elsa! 
Elsa!"  said  her  heart.  Back  in  the  red  and  brown  house 
lay  the  old  man  her  father,  watched  over  by  the  orphan 
girl  and  by  Gretchen  Knapp.  He  lay  peacefully,  his  ship 
a  noble  ship,  waiting  in  a  great  calm  for  the  loosening  that 
should  send  him  forth  upon  the  ocean.  She  was  at  peace 


THEKLA  AND  EBERHARD  377 

with  and  about  him.  .  .  .  The  time-spirit  was  busied  with 
a  great  rearrangement  of  particles.  She  felt  that;  she  be 
lieved  that  the  new  arranging  held  great  promise;  she 
loved  the  world  and  was  happy  with  a  vision  of  an  inner 
new  garment,  beautiful,  desirable  as  this  outer  loveli 
ness  of  spring  garments!  She  had  the  great  happiness  of 
believing  that  spring  was  coming  to  the  whole  world. 
"Elsa!"  beat  her  heart.  And,  "Eberhard  —  Eberhard  — 
Eberhard!"  beat  her  heart.  And  "Women — women  — 
women!"  beat  her  heart.  And,  "All  the  world  —  all  the 
world!"  beat  her  heart. 

A  few  miles  out  of  Hauptberg,  Eberhard,  driving  a  strong 
grey  farmhorse  in  a  farmcart,  turned  from  a  wood  track 
into  the  highway.  No  one  was  near,  only  distant  folk  and 
beasts  might  be  seen  upon  the  road.  Thekla  climbed  to  his 
side,  and  the  steady  grey  horse  drew  them  on.  To  those 
who  knew  them  not  they  might  seem  a  prospering  peasant 
and  his  wife. 

They  drove  many  miles  through  the  soft,  bloomy 
weather.  Here  was  their  present  goal  —  a  farmhouse 
known  to  Thekla,  the  place  where  she  stayed  when  at  long, 
long  intervals  she  came  to  see  Elsa  in  the  Convent  of  the 
Vale.  From  the  hill  behind  the  house  might  be  seen  the 
roofs  of  Elsa's  prison.  ...  To  Elsa  it  had  not  always  been 
prison;  to  many  therein  it  did  not  now  seem  prison;  to  very 
many  in  the  near  past  and  the  far  past  it  had  stood  as 
true  refuge  and  haven  of  safety;  to  a  few  its  meaning  had 
been  high  opportunity,  fair  self-fulfilment.  It  had  had 
part,  and  no  ignoble  part,  in  the  movement  of  all  things. 
But  now  to  the  inner  need  of  many  an  one,  it  was  grown 
a  manacle  for  the  spirit's  wrists,  a  bandage  for  the  eyes, 
an  unwholesome  draught  for  the  lips,  a  shell  and  casing 


378  THE  WANDERERS 

straight  and  deadening.  It  stifled  the  life  that  once  it  had 
served. 

The  farmhouse  where  now  the  two  alighted  from  the 
cart  was  one  in  which  Thekla  and  Elsa  had  played  as 
children.  The  grey-headed  man  who  met  them  in  the  yard 
was  a  kinsman  of  their  mother's,  the  middle-aged  man 
who  would  not  return  till  evening  from  the  fields,  the 
middle-aged  woman  who  stood  in  the  door,  were  of  those 
who  presently  would  be  called  "Lutheran."  Thekla  was 
at  home  here;  they  took  Eberhard  simply,  as  her  helper 
in  a  piece  of  business  of  which  they  had  knowledge.  The 
grey-headed  man  showed  him  where  to  put  the  grey  horse 
and  the  cart;  he  came  presently  into  a  bare,  clean  room 
where  the  women  were  placing  upon  a  deal  table  bread 
and  meat  and  ale.  He  and  Thekla  sat  down  and  ate  and 
drank,  and  in  at  the  open  window  came  all  the  songs  and 
scents  of  spring. 

The  shadows  grew  long,  the  sun  went  down,  a  full  moon 
rose  behind  the  hills.  The  frog  choir  was  in  the  meadows, 
a  nightbird  cried  from  the  wood.  Thekla  and  Eberhard 
were  walking  through  a  forest,  following  a  stream  that 
flowed  by  convent  lands.  Huge  boughs  stretched  above 
their  heads,  the  moon  came  through  the  forest  windows, 
the  clear  stream  sang.  Then  they  came  to  a  bare  hill  and 
mounted  it.  On  the  top  they  paused,  and,  looking  down, 
saw  the  Convent  of  the  Vale. 

It  became  deep  night.  .  .  .  With  hearts  that  trembled, 
that  stood  still,  that  drew  courage  and  met  the  emergency, 
two  nuns  of  the  Vale  stole  from  cells,  through  corridors, 
by  many  doors,  by  blank  walls.  They  reached  a  door 
seldom  used,  in  a  part  of  the  vast  building  from  which  the 
life  of  the  place  had  withdrawn.  There  were  bars  across; 


THEKLA  AND  EBERHARD  379 

these  they  withdrew  softly,  softly.  Here  was  the  heavy 
lock.  Elsa  had  the  key,  obtained  after  long,  patient  plan 
ning,  obtained  with  a  still  daring.  She  kneeled,  inserted  the 
key,  —  it  turned  with  groaning  sound.  The  two  waited,  so 
breathless  and  unmoving  that  they  seemed  figures  of  wax 
resting  there  against  wall  and  door.  But  the  convent  slept, 
or,  waking,  did  not  hear.  Elsa  drew  open  the  door.  They 
went  out,  they  closed  it  behind  them;  they  made  way 
through  the  convent  garden. 

Here  was  the  wall,  high,  but  with  huge  ivy  twists  cover 
ing  it  to  the  top.  They  found  the  stoutest  of  these;  — 
helping  each  the  other,  they  mounted,  they  crept  across 
the  broad  coping,  where  the  ivy  was  not  let  to  come.  They 
looked  over,  down  into  darkness,  they  made  courage 
their  servant,  they  gripped  the  edge  with  both  hands, 
they  lowered  themselves,  they  dropped  upon  the  earth 
beneath.  Mother  Earth  was  kind,  they  took  no  hurt.  .  .  . 
There  were  yet  to  pass  neighbouring  low  houses  of  peas 
ants,  bound  to  the  soil  and  convent  service.  But  the  night 
was  at  its  depth  and  all  life  seemed  charmed  to  keep  its 
place. 

A  clear  stream  slipped  through  the  vale.  Upon  one  side 
lay  the  convent  land,  upon  the  other  the  world  beyond 
its  dominion.  A  narrow  bridge  gave  crossing.  Elsa  and 
her  fellow  crossed  the  stream  and  were  immediately  under 
huge  trees.  Thekla  spoke  from  where  she  stood  beneath 
an  oak.  "Elsa..." 

Thekla,  Eberhard,  Elsa  and  Clara  hastened  through  the 
night.  The  old  wood  stood  still  about  them,  they  had 
glimpses  of  stars  like  hanging  fruit,  balm  drew  its  mantle 
around.  They  went  fast  and  went  far,  and  ere  the  cock 
crew  were  at  that  farmhouse.  Here  was  food  prepared,  and 


380  THE   WANDERERS 

peasant  dresses  for  Elsa  and  Clara.  In  a  room  in  which  the 
dawn  was  coming,  Elsa,  this  dress  upon  her,  took  up  the 
nun's  garb,  fallen  at  her  feet.  She  looked  at  Thekla  over 
it,  Thekla  looked  at  her.  They  were  both  moved,  they 
had  a  great  tenderness  in  their  faces.  "Now  we  will  put  it 
in  the  fire,"  said  Elsa.  "It  has  meant  some  terrible  things, 
and  it  has  meant  some  lovely  things,  and  it  will  go  away 
in  lovely  flame,  and  when  I  remember  the  terrible  I  will 
also  remember  the  lovely,  as  is  just." 

"Yes,"  said  Thekla.  "Here  is  the  fire  kindled." 
Elsa  and  Clara  came  out  of  the  house,  like  peasant 
women.  Behind  them  Margaret,  Hans's  wife,  made 
haste  to  make  the  house  as  though  none  but  the  usual 
dwellers  had  stepped  therein,  or  yesterday  or  to-day. 
Without,  in  the  pink  dawn  light,  waited  the  horse  and 
cart  and  Eberhard  in  the  carter's  seat.  And  here  were 
Hans  and  old  Fritz  and  Michael,  son  of  Fritz,  with  their 
own  cart  and  cart-horse  ready  to  overtread  and  confuse 
within  and  without  the  farmyard  the  marks  of  the  Haupt- 
berg  travellers.  Thekla,  Elsa,  and  Clara  climbed  into  the 
cart.  Thekla  sat  beside  Eberhard,  Elsa  and  Clara  sat 
upon  straw,  among  baskets,  wide  peasant  hats  shading 
their  faces.  The  light  was  not  yet  clear;  they  were  forth 
upon  the  highroad,  going  toward  Hauptberg  before  the 
growing  travel  took  note  of  them.  And  then  the  travel 
saw  only  prosperous  peasant-folk  going  to  town  to  market. 
And  so  at  last  they  came  to  Hauptberg. 

Gabriel  lay  as  he  had  lain  when  Thekla  and  Eberhard 
left  him.  Gretel  the  orphan  and  Gretchen  Knapp  had 
cared  for  him  well.  The  cherry  blossoms  nodded  over  the 
little  red  and  brown  house,  the  bees  hummed  around  it. 
Elsa  stood  as  in  a  trance,  tasting  home.  .  .  .  They  made 


THEKLA  AND   EBERHARD  381 

Glara  welcome,  would  hold  her  until  her  kin  that  were  of 
the  following  of  Luther  could  send  for  her  from  their  own 
town. 

Presently  Hauptberg  knew  that  two  nuns  had  left  the 
Convent  of  the  Vale,  and  that  Gabriel  Mayr's  daughter 
Elsa  was  within  the  town  walls,  in  the  red  and  brown 
house  with  the  old  dying  scholar,  with  her  sister  Thekla. 
Great  talk  arose  in  which  opinion  stood  divided.  Some 
cried  huge  scandal  and  sacrilege,  some  held  their  breath, 
some  cried,  Well  done !  All  Germany  now  was  divided  into 
two  parties,  those  two  divided  into  others.  The  old  party, 
the  old  Church  thundered  and  threatened,  but  the  new 
party  gathered  and  came  on  with  the  shout  of  the  spring 
time  flood.  The  Prince  in  whose  rule  stood  the  town  of 
Hauptberg  was  friendly  to  the  new.  If  at  first  it  was  doubt 
ful,  it  was  soon  seen  that,  so  long  as  the  new  withstood  and 
grew  upon  the  old,  Elsa  who  had  been  nun  was  safe  in 
Hauptberg,  and  safe  those  who  had  helped  her  escape. 

Martin  Luther  heard  of  that  happening,  and  preaching 
in  Wittenberg,  cried,  "See  how,  God  with  them,  those  two 
came  forth!  Be  of  their  company,  monk  and  nun,  through 
out  the  land!  O  ye  self-immured,  do  ye  not  see  that  ye 
cannot  wall  in  God?  Man  cannot  wall  God  in,  and  woman 
cannot  wall  God  in!  God  —  yea,  in  your  bodies!  —  will 
walk  free!" 

Others  were  breaking  monastery  and  convent  —  this 
very  year  came  from  the  Convent  at  Eisenach  Catherine 
von  Bora  and  her  five  sister  nuns.  .  .  . 

In  Hauptberg,  in  the  red  and  brown  house  behind  the 
cherry  trees,  Thekla  and  Elsa  kneeled  beside  their  dying 
father.  Gabriel  Mayr  was  conscious,  he  had  a  peaceful 
and  clear  going  forth.  He  put  his  hands  upon  his  daughters' 


3 82  THE   WANDERERS 

hands,  the  hands  of  the  three  held  together.  "Thekla  and 
Elsa.  .  .  .  Wider  and  deeper  being  for  us  all  — "  His  hands 
unclosed,  life  went  out  of  his  body.  Thekla  and  Elsa  rose 
and  looked  upon  the  shell  beside  the  ocean. 

Summer  passed  —  autumn  came,  rich  and  ripe  with 
wheat  sheaves  and  hanging  grapes.  Thekla  and  Elsa  lived 
on  in  the  red  and  brown  house  and  earned  for  themselves. 
Then  Elsa  went  to  the  nearest  great  city  to  visit  Clara  who 
lived  there.  Thekla  and  the  young  orphan  girl  kept  the 
house.  Eberhard  painted  a  great  picture  for  a  guild  hall  in 
a  town  fifty  miles  away. 

Came  winter  with  its  grey  cloak  and  its  white  cloak  and  on 
keen,  clear  nights  the  tremendous  stars.  Came  again  Eber 
hard.  "Thekla,  now  must  we  live  and  work  together  —  " 

"Live  and  work  together." 

They  gathered  neighbours  and  friends,  and  before  these 
took  each  the  other's  hands.  "We  two  love,  and  we  will  to 
live  and  work  together  —  " 

So  Eberhard  came  to  the  red  and  brown  house.  .  .  . 

And  all  this  while  the  mind  of  the  age  moved  in  revolt, 
and,  like  the  needle  of  the  compass,  customs  and  insti 
tutions  trembled  toward  following  the  mind.  It  was  the 
new  time,  and  the  new  time  was  yet  fluid,  and  might  go 
between  these  banks  or  between  those.  The  flood  might 
contract  —  the  flood  might  expand.  Many  fields  would  be 
watered,  or  more  or  less.  Those  who  cared  for  certain 
fields  looked  anxiously  that  they  be  helped.  Hearts  beat 
high  and  hearts  sank  —  there  were  dreams  —  there  were 
pangs  of  hope  and  of  disappointment.  Some  could  say, 
"The  water  comes  to  my  fields,  the  water  turns  my  mill 
wheel!"  and  some,  "It  goes  aside,  my  fields  are  left  un- 
helped,  my  wheel  stands  still  1"  and  some,  "For  me  a 


THEKLA   AND   EBERHARD  383 

little  rill,  a  broken  light,  a  wheel  that  is  turned  a  little 
way!" 

At  Christmas-tide  came  again  to  the  Golden  Eagle  Al~ 
brecht  and  Ulrich,  Conrad  Devilson  and  Walther  von  Lan- 
gen,  older  all  by  four  years  than  in  that  December  when 
they  had  brought  news  of  the  burning  of  the  Pope's  bull. 
As  of  yore  the  Golden  Eagle  creaked  and  swung.  Within 
the  clean  inn  room  Hans  Knapp  fed  the  fire,  and  the  flame 
leaped  up  the  chimney.  Frau  Knapp  had  lost  no  skill 
of  cookery,  and  Gretchen  Knapp,  a  little  larger,  a  little 
rosier,  moved  about  the  room  and  set  the  pasty  on  the  ta 
ble  and  drew  the  ale.  Only  two  of  the  incoming  four  might 
justly  now  be  named  wandering  students.  One  had  set 
tled  into  burgherdom  and  was  in  Hauptberg  on  merchant 
business.  One  taught  in  an  university  and  now  had  a 
holiday.  The  four  had  met  much  by  accident.  But  fine  and 
pleasant  it  was  to  be  together  again,  at  this  Golden  Eagle! 
They  recalled  the  last  time  they  had  been  so  together  in 
this  town.  "We  went  to  Gabriel  Mayr's.  Eberhard  Ger- 
son  was  with  us."  —  "Now  it  is  Eberhard's  small  red 
and  brown  house  —  Eberhard's  cherry  trees  and  currant 
bushes!"  —  "Let  us  go  see  Eberhard  and  Thekla!" 

They  went  somewhat  merrily  up  the  narrow  street,  but 
they  did  not  sing  as  they  had  done.  That  was  because  they 
were  older,  and  two  were  grown  respectable.  Moreover, 
some  sweetness  and  wild  flavour —  the  taste  of  the  first 
flood  —  undeniably  was  gone  out  of  the  times. 

Here  was  the  red  and  brown  house  between  the  wood- 
carver's  and  the  goldsmith's.  They  struck  against  the  door. 
It  opened  and  Thekla  stood  before  them.  "Welcome,  and 
enter,  wandering  students!" 

In  the  room,  ruddy  with  firelight,  Elsa  sat  and  span, 


384  THE   WANDERERS 

open  beside  her  a  book  of  old  poetry.  Gretel,  the  young 
orphan  girl,  knitted  and  played  with  the  cat  upon  the 
hearth.  Eberhard  was  gone  to  look  at  a  book  at  the  Uni 
versity.  He  would  presently  be  home.  Thekla  showed  the 
work  he  was  doing  —  the  series  of  drawings,  The  Road  to 
the  City  of  God.  The  wandering  students  admired,  com 
mented,  admired  again.  "The  verse  in  each  —  the  verse 
that  is  shown?" 

"I  write  the  verse.    He  makes  the  picture." 

"They  fit,"  said  Conrad  Devilson,  "like  two  halves  of 
an  apple!" 

Eberhard  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  There  was 
welcoming  —  good  talk  of  work  and  of  old  times  and  wan 
derings.  Gathered  around  the  fire,  they  talked  of  private 
and  public  matters.  It  was  a  time  when  the  public  business 
is  clearly  seen  to  be  each  soul's  business.  So  they  talked  of 
the  general  storm  and  stress.  Eberhard  had  news.  Martin 
Luther  was  coming  to  Hauptberg  and  on  three  successive 
days  would  deliver  three  discourses.  And  all  would  go.  .  .  . 

Outside  the  house  the  wind  rattled  the  boughs,  the 
wind  sang  in  the  chimney.  Thekla  sat  in  her  red  gown,  in 
the  old  chair  of  Gabriel  Mayr.  She  sat  in  the  middle  of 
the  half  ring,  in  front  of  the  bright,  leaping  fire. 

"Fire  is  a  chariot  in  which  rides  the  past!"  said  Thekla. 
"Who  first  kindled  fire  and  laid  it  on  a  hearth?" 

"Some  hunter,"  said  Conrad  Devilson.  "He  would  find 
a  cave  and  bring  lightning  from  a  stricken  tree,  and  build 
himself  a  hearth,  and  lay  fire  and  cook  his  game  and  be  at 
home!  The  early  man." 

"Ah,  much  we  owe  the  early  man!"  said  Walther  von 
Langen. 

"He  is  at  the  base,"  said  Albrecht. 


THEKLA   AND   EBERHARD  385 

The  wind  whistled,  the  bare  cherry  boughs  tapped  upon 
the  wall.  Thekla  left  the  great  chair  and  the  fire  and  going 
to  the  smaller  room  brought  back  a  dish  of  red  apples 
and  a  jug  of  ale. 

A  week  and  Martin  Luther  came  to  Hauptberg.  All  that 
great  moiety  of  the  town  that  would  presently  be  named 
" Protestant"  flocked  and  crowded  to  hear  him,  who  was 
the  most  famous  man  in  Germany.  On  a  windy,  wintry  day, 
to  a  great  throng,  preached  Martin  Luther.  Two  hours 
he  preached  and  touched  on  many  things.  Great  was  his 
power  in  preaching,  great  his  power  to  make  and  guide 
opinion,  wide  the  magnetic  field  in  which  he  moved. 

That  was  the  first  day.  Came  the  second,  and  came  again 
the  flocking  and  the  thronging.  He  preached  the  revolt  of 
thought,  and  he  drew  Martin  Luther's  lines  around  that 
revolt,  and  within  the  line  was  blessing  and  without  the 
line  was  cursing.  One  thought  of  revolt  infected  another 
thought  with  revolt,  one  question  led  to  other  questions. 
.  .  .  Martin  Luther  knew  not  how  to  help  that,  but  he 
could  preach  against  the  thought  with  which  he  did  not 
travel,  the  question  which  did  not  come  to  him  to  be  asked. 
...  He  could  preach  with  a  great,  plain  heat  and  power. 
He  could  knock  down  and  render  without  seeming  life  a 
thought  or  question.  If,  after  a  time,  it  revived,  got  again 
to  its  feet,  that  doubtless  was  a  trick  learned  of  Satan.  .  .  . 

He  travelled  with  religious  revolt,  but  by  no  means  with 
political,  economic,  and  social  revolt  —  save  only  as  all 
society,  through  religious  revolt,  somewhat  changed  its  hue. 
He  allowed  that;  where  society  had  been  dark  of  hue  it 
was  to  become  light  and  bright  of  hue.  He  thought  that 
his  definition  of  religion  was  the  whole  definition.  He 
carried  a  great  lantern  and  it  sent  a  bright  ray  into  many 


386  THE   WANDERERS 

a  dark  corner.  But  it  was  a  great  lantern  and  not  a 
sun. 

He  preached  against  the  seething  discontent  among 
the  peasants  and  the  artisans.  He  preached  against 
economic  revolt.  It  was  a  wide  subject,  and  there  were 
other  revolts  also  that  to-day  he  lacked  time  thoroughly  to 
destroy.  Between  two  and  three  hours  he  preached.  He 
left  economic  and  class  revolt  breathless,  hurt  with  many 
a  wound,  seemingly  done  to  death.  And  there  was  yet 
to-morrow  in  which  to  finish  these  and  other  serpents  who 
raised  their  heads  from  the  dust  in  the  tumult  of  the 
times.  .  .  . 

On  the  morrow  he  preached  the  third  time.  Haupt- 
berg  that  would  hear  Luther  thronged  together  under  a 
grey  sky,  came  through  fast-falling  snowflakes.  They  fell 
so  thick,  they  fell  so  fast,  they  were  so  large  and  white 
that  the  world  seemed  moving  in  a  veil.  Martin  Luther 
preached  again  upon  the  revolts  outside  the  line  that  he 
drew,  and  he  shook  anathemas  upon  them,  and  he  laid 
hands  upon  the  Bible  before  him  and  he  interpreted  its 
words  according  to  his  own  inner  and  strong  feeling. 
"Slaves,  obey  your  masters!"  he  preached.  "Render  unto 
Caesar  that  which  is  Caesar's  and  unto  God  that  which  is 
God's!"  he  preached.  "The  poor  ye  have  always  with 
you!"  he  preached.  He  preached  of  men  and  women.  "Are 
you  made  for  abstinence?  No!  You  are  made,  as  God 
says,  to  increase  and  multiply!  But  in  marriage,  not  with 
out.  Therefore,  let  a  man  early  find  work  and  take  to 
wedlock  in  God's  name!  A  boy  at  the  latest  at  twenty, 
a  girl  at  fifteen  or  eighteen.  .  .  .  Let  God  take  care  how 
they  and  their  children  are  to  be  supported.  God  creates 
children  and  will  certainly  support  them.  ...  If  a  woman 


THEKLA   AND   EBERHARD  387 

becomes  weary  and  at  last  dead  from  bearing,  that  mat- 
tereth  not!  Let  her  only  die  from  bearing,  she  is  there 
to  do  it!" 

He  preached  the  subjection  of  woman.  "The  woman's 
will,  as  saith  God,  shall  be  subject  to  the  man  and  he  shall 
be  master;  which  is  to  say,  the  woman  shall  not  live  ac 
cording  to  her  free  will,  as  it  would  have  been  had  Eve 
not  sinned,  for  then  she  had  ruled  equally  with  Adam,  the 
man,  as  his  colleague!  Now,  however,  that  she  has  sinned 
and  seduced  the  man,  she  has  lost  the  governance,  and 
must  neither  begin  nor  complete  anything  without  the 
man!  Where  he  is  there  must  she  be,  and  bend  before  him 
as  before  her  master,  whom  she  shall  fear,  and  to  whom 
she  shall  be  subject  and  obedient!" 

He  swung  his  great  lantern,  and  now  there  was  light, 
and  now  its  light  was  darkened.  But  he  had  huge  influ 
ence  to  determine  minds  that  were  not  self-determined. 
The  sermon  was  over.  .  .  .  Dr.  Martin  Luther  went  away 
with  University  men;  the  crowd  broke,  hung  lingering, 
discoursing  upon  the  discourse,  most  unevenly  divided 
into  yeas  and  nays.  .  .  .  Then  home  it  went,  in  units,  twos, 
and  groups,  through  the  falling  snow. 

Elsa  was  again  with  Clara,  in  her  home  in  the  next  city. 
Thekla  and  Eberhard  came  between  the  bare  fruit  tree6 
to  their  door,  opened  it,  and  entering  heard  the  orphan 
girl  singing  at  her  work.  They  put  away  cap  and  mantle, 
hood  and  mantle;  they  came  to  the  fire,  and,  raking  up 
the  embers,  laid  on  fresh  wood,  and  brought  into  the  room 
the  brightness  of  leaping  flame.  The  air  grew  warm.  For 
all  the  falling  snow  without,  flowers  might  have  bloomed 
in  here  and  the  greenwood  waved.  Eberhard's  drawing- 
table  stood  by  the  window.  The  two,  moving  there,  gazed 


3 88  THE   WANDERERS 

out  upon  the  snow,  then,  turning,  looked  each  upon  the 
other.  They  laughed. 

Eberhard  bent  over  the  board.  "Picture  after  picture 
upon  the  Road  to  the  City  of  God!" 

"Ten  thousand,  thousand,  pictures!" 

Bending,  they  looked  at  the  drawing  together,  read 
together  the  verses  lying  beside  it.  "Good  is  the  poem!" 
said  Eberhard. 

"And  good  is  the  picture!" 

"What  was  it  Conrad  Devilson  said  the  other  day?" 

"'They  fit  like  two  halves  of  an  apple/  ...  To  talk  in 
terms  of  halves  —  how  strange  that  must  seem  in  a  world 
where  one  says,  'Lo,  an  apple!" 

They  laughed  again,  but  then  they  sighed,  looking  from 
the  window  upon  Hauptberg  and  the  falling  snow. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    RIGHT   OF    KINGS 

RICHARD  OSMUND  and  his  white  horse  approached 
Great  Meadow.  The  year  was  at  autumn,  the  year  1654. 
A  considerable  village,  Great  Meadow  spread  over  the 
ancient  meadow  and  a  short  way  up  the  hill.  Meadow  and 
hill  had  for  a  border  a  still,  complacent  river.  The  hill  was 
crested  by  an  old  wood,  and  along  the  roadside  stood 
huge,  bronzing  trees.  A  mile  from  town  a  stream  turned 
a  mill  wheel.  From  the  tall  stone  mill  might  be  seen  clus 
tering  houses  with  small  bright  dooryards,  and  the  village 
green  and  an  ancient  church  and  churchyard. 

Richard  Osmund  rode  slowly,  a  steadfast  man  in  a  plain 
dress  of  brown.  Dress  and  his  short-cut  hair,  and  his  un 
cocked  hat,  general  demeanour  as  well,  marked  him  for 
some  shade  of  inhabitant  of  the  Puritan  and  Parliament 
ary  hemisphere.  But  within  this  general  part  of  the  globe 
it  was  hard  to  class  him.  He  did  not  look  mere  Church 
Reform,  nor  yet  Presbyterian,  nor  precisely  Independent, 
not  yet  Anabaptist  nor  Leveller.  Certainly  he  must  be  a 
dissident  of  some  sort,  but  of  what  sort? 

He  possessed  strength  and  erectness,  with  a  clean  accu 
racy  of  bodily  movement.  Perhaps  he  had  been  a  soldier — 
Ironside.  But  even  thus  he  was  not  wholly  classed.  There 
seemed  to  shine  from  him  a  kind  of  wisdom;  he  looked  a 
thinker.  Perhaps  he  was  a  member  of  that  Parliament 
sitting  in  London  Town,  busy  with  English  destinies. 
Yet  even  in  this  time  of  the  Commonwealth,  there  should 


390  THE   WANDERERS 

be  about  him  some  little  pomp  and  circumstance  to  mark 
him  so  important.  There  was  not.  So  perhaps  he  was 
not  important.  He  seemed  about  thirty. 

It  was  a  still  autumn  morning,  of  a  vision-like  lift  and 
clearness.  The  white  horse  went  at  a  walk,  Richard  Os 
mund  thinking  as  he  rode.  He  came  by  the  stone  mill. 
The  mill  stream  gave  forth  a  crystal  sound,  the  water 
flashed  over  the  wheel.  A  couple  of  men,  two  or  three 
boys,  busied  themselves  before  the  great  door. 

" Good-day,  friends!"  said  Richard  Osmund,  passing. 

"Good-day,"  answered  the  men;  then,  straightening 
themselves  from  the  grain  sacks,  looked  at  horse  and  rider 
more  closely.  Said  the  miller,  "That  one,  too,  rides  a  white 
horse!" 

Osmund  had  passed  the  door.  The  miller's  helper  called 
after  him,  "Be  Richard  Osmund  your  name?" 

The  rider  turned  his  head.  "Yes,  friend!  It  is  my  name." 

The  miller  and  the  miller's  helper  broke  into  laughter  — 
not  kindly  laughter.  "Osmund  on  his  white  horse!"  The 
laughter  had  in  it  a  jeer,  anger  increased  in  it.  The  miller 
was  a  choleric  man.  He  doubled  his  fists,  he  shouted  to 
Osmund:  "Throw  you  in  the  race!  Come  here,  and  I'll 
throw  you  in  the  race!" 

The  man  to  whom  he  cried  regarded  him  and  the  mill 
wheel  and  the  mill  race  with  a  certain  patient  whimsical- 
ness.  "Flow  race  —  turn  wheel  —  fight  with  your  sins, 
miller!  Not  with  me  who  bring  them  to  your  mind!" 

He  rode  on,  going  with  the  same  deliberateness  as  before. 
The  road  bending,  the  mill  was  hidden.  He  was  going  over 
a  way  chequered  with  light  and  shade.  Overhead  rose  a 
great  noise  of  birds.  The  road  mounting  slightly;  he  saw, 
at  a  little  distance,  the  village  full  before  him  like  the 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS  391 

device  upon  a  shield.  Richard  Osmund  upon  his  white 
horse. 

The  horse  had  been  his  father's.  It  was  old,  but  strong 
yet.  Richard  Osmund  had  money,  just  enough  to  loosen  the 
bonds  of  farm  and  of  desk  and  to  set  him  free  to  go  through 
England  from  town  to  town  and  village  to  village,  to  clothe 
him  as  he  was  clothed,  to  give  him  plain  lodging  and 
plain  food.  He  had  not  money  for  another  horse,  did  he 
wish  to  change.  Loving  his  old  white  friend,  the  thing 
had  not  before  occurred  to  him.  But  it  was  true  that  he 
was  sooner  known  for  the  horse  that  he  rode.  Where  there 
grew  hostility  the  bitter  fruit  fell  oftener  upon  his  head. 
...  He  might  take  White  Faithful  back  to  the  farm, 
and  henceforth  walk.  That  was  in  his  mind  as  he  rode.  .  .  . 
Halfway  between  the  mill  and  the  town  he  saw  running 
through  the  fields  the  boys  who  had  hung  about  the  mill 
door.  They  were  making  for  Great  Meadow,  and  would 
be  there  as  soon  or  sooner  than  he.  "Ho!  Coming  into 
town,  Richard  Osmund — !" 

White  Faithful  and  Osmund  plodded  on. 

He  thought  that  he  must  have  been  in  Great  Meadow 
as  a  child,  his  father  and  mother  coming  this  way  from 
the  north.  And  after  Marston  Moor  he  had  ridden  through 
the  place,  a  young  soldier  in  a  troop  of  Ironsides.  He  had 
remembered  the  mill,  and  now  he  thought  that  over  all  the 
landscape  and  the  village  like  the  boss  of  the  shield  there 
hung  a  sense  of  familiarity.  He  often  had  this  brooding 
sense.  "Nor  is  this  either  strange  to  me!" 

He  approached  the  edge  of  the  village.  About  him, 
among  trees,  stood  some  poor  cottages.  He  spoke  to  an 
old  man  leaning  upon  a  gate.  "  I  want  a  lodging  for  two 
days  or  more.  There  is  a  tavern  here — " 


392  THE   WANDERERS 

"Aye.  Once  ?t  was  the  King's  Own,  but  now  't  is  the 
Green  Wreath." 

"Tavern  charges  are  too  great.  But  I  can  pay  fairly  for 
myself  and  my  horse." 

"Over  there,  among  the  willows  —  Diccon  the  thatcher 
may  take  you." 

"Over  there"  showed  a  field  away  from  the  road.  A 
lane  led  to  it.  Down  this  turned  Osmund,  riding  beneath 
ancient  trees.  He  crossed  a  stream,  and  came  to  a  thatched 
house,  long  and  low,  willow-shaded,  and  open-doored. 
Diccon  the  thatcher  was  building  a  shed.  Yes,  he  had  a 
room  to  hire  and  a  stable  for  a  horse.  So  much  it  was. 

Osmund,  dismounted,  drew  from  pocket  the  sum  named. 

"The  most  pay  when  they  go,"  said  the  thatcher. 

"I  know.  But  accidents  happen.  Best  take  it  now, 
friend!" 

"An  you  will,  I  will,"  said  the  thatcher  and  took  the 
money.  He  looked  the  other  over.  "The  gentry  do  not 
often  come  here.  They  go  to  the  Green  Wreath." 

"I  am  not  gentry.  Perhaps,"  said  Osmund,  "it  is  right 
to  tell  you  that  I  am  not  popular  where  I  go." 

The  thatcher  gazed  still,  then  he  spoke  and  he  seemed 
to  quote  some  saying  that  he  had  heard.  "'A  simple, 
proper-looking  man  riding  a  white  horse.'  —  Is  your  name 
"Osmund?" 

"Yes.   Richard  Osmund." 

The  thatcher,  who  was  a  slow,  deep  man,  studied  the 
situation.  "If  strange  doctrines  killed  men  I  reckon  that 
England  would  be  a  desert  to-day!  .  .  .  Now,  George  Fox. 
I  was  at  Reading,  and  I  heard  him  witnessing  before  what 
he  called  the  steeple-house.  When  he  was  done  they 
beat  and  stoned  him  and  took  him  away  to  gaol.  .  .  .  But 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS 


393 


I  did  n't  taste  poison  in  his  words.  I  thought  there  was 
some  honey  in  them." 

"So  there  is.  —  I  will  put  White  Faithful  in  the  stable 
then." 

"It  is  market  day  in  Great  Meadow.  There  will  be  a 
many  about." 

"  It  happens  sometimes  to  me  as  it  does  to  George  Fox. 
If  it  happens  so  in  Great  Meadow,  keep  White  Faithful, 
until  you  hear  from  me.  If  you  hear  no  more,  keep  him 
and  use  him,  treating  him  well." 

They  moved  together  toward  the  stable  and  the  house. 
"Great  Meadow,"  said  the  thatcher,  "is  hard  on  new  doc 
trines  until  somehow  it  drinks  them  down  —  and  then 
it  thinks  the  spring  was  always  on  its  land!  I've  seen 
Great  Meadow  Bishop  and  King —  and  I've  seen  it  Pres 
bytery  and  Parliament  —  and  now  it's  Independent  and 
Oliver  and  the  new  Commons.  But  it  always  cries  ( Poison!' 
at  first.  .  .  .  Keep  your  mouth  shut  till  you  see  which  way 
the  creature '11  jump!  That  always  seemed  wisdom  to  me 
until  I  heard  George  Fox." 

"And  then?" 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  the  thatcher.  "Of  course  if 
you're  marching,  and  the  thirst  and  heat  are  bad,  and 
some  one  knows  of  a  spring  of  water  he  ought  to  tell.  .  .  . 
But  your  doctrine,  now,  is  n't  religious." 

"Is  n't  it?  "asked  Osmund.  "I  wonder.  .  .  .  I  think  that 
it  is  religious." 

"Scorn  and  laughter  are  hard  things  to  bear,"  said  the 
thatcher.  "How  did  you  strike  out  what  you  did?" 

"The  fire  was  in  the  flint  for  who  had  eyes  to  see,"  said 
Osmund.  "Also  I  was  born  of  a  woman." 

Within  the  house  Margery  the  thatcher's  wife  put  bread 


394  THE  WANDERERS 

and  ale  upon  a  table.  Osmund  sat  down  and  ate  and  drank. 
When  he  had  done  this  he  took  a  book  from  his  pocket  and 
began  to  read.  That  was  for  rest  after  deep  pondering, 
and  to  steady  nerve  and  brain  before  he  should  rise  and 
walk  forth,  deep  into  Great  Meadow.  A  small,  latticed 
window  gave  upon  a  small  garden  and  a  climbing  hill.  In 
the  garden  were  sprinkled,  as  by  a  giant's  hand,  clumps  of 
red  and  gold  and  blue,  gillyflower  and  larkspur  and  mari 
gold.  A  woman,  passing  the  window,  looked  for  a  moment 
into  the  room,  then  presently  entered  at  the  door.  She 
crossed  to  a  stair  and  mounting  this  disappeared.  Osmund 
looked  up  from  his  book.  She  was  a  young  woman,  of  a 
darkness  mixed  with  rose.  Almost  immediately  she  was 
in  the  room  again,  upon  her  head  the  wide  straw  hat  of 
the  country  women.  She  crossed  to  the  door,  vanished 
into  the  world  without. 

Osmund,  falling  to  his  book  again,  read  a  little  farther  in 
its  pages,  then  marked  the  place  and  shut  the  volume.  He 
sat  on  in  the  clean,  still  room,  elbows  resting  upon  the  table, 
his  forehead  in  his  hands.  He  sat  very  quiet,  collecting 
the  inner  forces.  At  last  he  rose,  and  left  the  room  and 
the  cottage.  He  found  the  thatcher  yet  busy  with  the  shed. 
"Are  you  going  now  into  Great  Meadow?  That  is  my 
cousin  going  ahead  of  you  there.  Wait  till  she  is  gone.  I 
said  naught  to  her  about  you." 

Osmund  leaned  against  the  shed  and  looked  at  a  bird 
soaring  above  the  stream  and  the  trees.  The  thatcher 
spoke  on.  "As  I  said,  there'll  be  a  many  about  in  the 
town  to-day  —  well-off  and  poor  and  old  and  young.  And 
market  days  are  n't  always  the  most  peaceable!  You  know 
your  own  business  best,  but  Great  Meadow '11  be  a  quieter 
place  to-morrow." 


THE  RIGHT  OF  KINGS  395 

"But  not  so  many  people  together.  If  you've  a  mes 
sage,"  said  Osmund,  "that  you  want  to  give  to  the  whole 
country — " 

The  thatcher  took  hold  of  a  beam  to  lift  it  into  place. 
Osmund  helping  him,  together  they  raised  and  set  it,  then 
stood  back  to  breathe.  "Well,  yours  is  the  strangest  mes 
sage!''  said  the  thatcher.  "I'm  coming  into  town  myself 
after  a  little.  I  Ve  heard  George  Fox.  As  I  look  at  it,  a  man 
can  afford  to  hear  more  than  ordinarily  he  does  hear." 

"I  think  that  he  can,"  said  Osmund. 

The  woman  had  disappeared  from  the  lane  going  to 
Great  Meadow.  Richard  Osmund,  crossing  the  stream, 
took  the  same  narrow  way,  bronzed  by  autumn,  with  the 
birds  flying  up  from  the  hedges,  up  and  afar  into  the  deep, 
blue  heaven. 

Short  was  the  distance  into  Great  Meadow.  It  seemed 
that  every  one  was  out  of  doors;  he  heard  the  market  clack 
and  hum.  Persons  passed  him  and  he  passed  persons,  men 
and  women  and  children.  Some  did  not  notice  him;  others 
spoke  or  not  as  the  mood  was  in  them.  It  was  not  until  he 
had  come  in  sight  of  the  market  stalls  and  the  village  green 
that  any  recognized  him.  Then  came  tilt  against  him  one 
of  the  boys  who  had  been  at  the  mill  and  had  run  through 
the  fields.  The  boy  looked,  then  turned  and  ran  crying  to 
a  knot  of  young  men  at  a  corner:  "Here  he  is  now!  Here 
he  is  now!"  Richard  Osmund  passed  by  to  loud  laughter 
and  hard  words. 

The  Green  Wreath  had  about  it  numbers  of  villagers  and 
country  folk.  Drovers  and  farmers  were  in  town.  The  tav 
ern,  the  church,  the  market  booths  all  gave  upon  the 
green.  The  day  was  at  noon,  the  sun  strong,  the  air  full 
of  sound.  In  the  circle  of  Great  Meadow  were  a  thou- 


396  THE   WANDERERS 

sand  people  and  more.  .  .  .  All  over  England  stood  such 
hives  of  people.  .  .  .  To  place  within  these  hives  an  idea 
new  to  them,  to  leave  it  there  to  live  and  work,  or  to  seem 
to  die,  smothered  and  trodden  underfoot,  to  seem  to  die 
and  yet  to  work  on.  ...  Ways  to  place  ideas.  The  writing 
way,  the  book  way,  was  one.  And  Richard  Osmund's  book 
might  serve  the  idea,  and  he  hoped  as  much  from  it. 
To  speak  out  in  England  to-day  was  the  other  way  that 
he  could  see,  and,  seeing,  took. 

Broad,  rounded  steps  led  from  the  green  to  the  church 
yard  gate.  Here  was  goodly  space  for  standing,  and  many 
a  speaker  to  Great  Meadow  had  stood  here.  Now  Osmund 
stood.  "Folk  of  Great  Meadow  — " 

Buyers  and  sellers,  men  and  women,  left  the  market. 
The  men  left  the  Green  Wreath.  There  came  together  a 
mob,  increasing  from  every  side.  In  part  it  was  curious  and 
wished  to  hear,  in  part  it  was  angry  and  wished  but  to  loose 
its  own  passion.  Here  and  there  in  the  mass  might  stand 
a  forward-looking  soul,  interested  rather  than  curious,  not 
inclined  to  mere  fury  against  the  new.  But  these  were  few 
set  over  against  the  many. 

Osmund  stood,  a  resolute  man,  striving  to  cause  an  inner 
light  to  shine  outward.  He  looked  at  the  throng  pressing 
around,  close  to  the  steps.  He  saw  that  it  made  a  black  and 
heavy  cloud  that  might  turn  to  a  storm  that  should  beat 
him  down.  By  now  he  could  well  gauge  these  crowds 
that  would  listen  so  long  as  it  pleased  them  to  do  so,  and 
then  would  lift  the  arm  of  a  phrenetic.  Yet  always,  even  in 
the  midst  of  the  darkest  cloud,  he  could  see,  like  stars  in 
narrow  rifts,  listening  faces,  kindred  eyes.  But  this  was  a 
heavy  cloud  and  would  surely  break  in  storm. 

He  opened  his  lips.  "I  have  a  call  to  speak  to  the  people 


THE  RIGHT   OF  KINGS  397 

of  England!  —  England,  England,  thou  hast  heard  many 
calling  to  thee,  and  sometimes  thou  harkenest,  and  some 
times  thou  turnest  upon  thy  side.  'Let  me  alone!  A  little 
more  slumber  and  a  little  more  sleep!'  And  sometimes  thou 
stainest  thyself  purple  with  the  blood  of  those  who  cry!" 

In  the  crowd  was  a  score  of  mere  barbarians.  These 
began  at  once  to  shout  against  him.  "Richard  Osmund! 
Pull  him  down!  Have  away  with  him!"  Others  withstood 
these.  "Wait  till  he  speaks!  We  want  to  hear — "  The 
crowd  worked  and  seethed.  The  sun  beat  down  upon 
flushed  faces. 

"Great  Meadow,  hearken!  What  is  our  English  word 
to-day?  Liberty!  Then  I  speak  to  you  of  Liberty.  What 
have  we  done?  We  have  said  to  the  Bishops,  'God  in  us 
the  ruler  in  his  own  matters  —  not  you!'  We  have  said  to 
the  House  of  Lords,  'You  have  thought  that  you  were 
born  to  rule  over  us  —  but  you  were  not!'  We  have  said 
to  the  King,  'Only  in  the  divine  is  there  divine  right!'  And 
the  Bishops  rule  no  more,  nor  the  Lords,  and  the  King  has 
suffered  death.  Now  is  the  New  Commons  sitting  in 
London!  " 

His  words  made  way  against  all  difficulties.  "Aye,  aye!" 
cried  the  crowd,  arrested.  "We  in  England  rule  ourselves! 
We  and  Oliver  rule  ourselves!" 

Osmund  laughed,  standing  on  the  churchyard  steps. 
His  laughter  was  not  bitter,  but  clear  and  large.  "So  we 
say.  'Lo,' we  say, 'England  is  free!'  Freer  than  we  were — 
that  is  sooth!  But  not  free.  No  more  so  than  is  the  pris 
oner  who  has  broken  one  ward  when  there  are  twenty 
yet  to  break.  Yet  is  that  prisoner  freer  by  just  that  broken 
ward,  and  stronger  to  work  on  by  the  new  hope  that  is  in 
him!  Let  him  take  courage  and  break  ward  after  ward!" 


398  THE  WANDERERS 

"What  ward,  now?  Now,  what  ward?  Now  shall  we 
have  Osmund's  doctrine!" 

" Break  ward  after  ward!  Said  Christ  Jesus,  'Put  not 
new  wine  into  old  bottles,  nor  new  cloth  upon  the  old 
garment/  —  O  English  folk,  let  us  deepen  and  widen  and 
heighten  freedom  until  there  stands  the  new  vessel  for  the 
new  wine,  and  for  the  patched  the  whole,  fair,  shining 
garment!  Nowhere  yet  —  no,  not  by  many  a  ward  —  full 
freedom,  full  escape!  Not  in  England,  not  upon  earth. 
Freedom  in  part — light  in  part!  Your  task  and  mine  never 
to  rest  until  the  whole  is  come  and  the  part  melts  within 
it!" 

" Osmund's  doctrine!  'Let  women  rule,  too!'  He  always 
begins  something  like  this,  and  then  he  ends,  'Let  women 
rule,  too!'" 

"Be  sure  he  leads  a  lewd  life!" 

The  more  violent  sort  broke  forth  again.  "Pull  him 
down!  Have  away  with  him!  In  Warwick  it  was  gaol  for 
him,  and  in  Coventry  cart  tail  and  pillory!  Heinousness! 
Heinousness  and  blasphemy!"  Clamour  arose  and  a  move 
ment  from  within  the  throng  toward  the  steps  and  Osmund 
upon  them.  Then  appeared  the  Great  Meadow  constable 
and  his  men.  "Order  —  order  here,  in  the  name  of  the 
Commonwealth!" 

Osmund  cried  on.  "Men  are  not  free  to-day,  and  women 
are  less  free!  Were  women  as  free  to-day  as  are  men,  still 
would  men  and  women  have  many  a  thousand  wards  to 
break,  as  many  well-nigh  as  the  sands  of  the  sea!  We  use 
the  word  'freedom,'  but  we  are  to  be  freedom!  So  I  do  not 
end,  Great  Meadow,  with  'Let  women  rule,  too!'  But  in 
this  hour  I  preach,  'What  freedom  there  is,  let  us  share 
and  share  alike!  What  freedom  there  is,  let  it  be  for 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS  399 

women  as  for  men!  What  freedom  there  is,  let  it  run 
healthily  through  the  whole  body!" 

"He  is  a  Friend!  He  is  a  Quaker!  He  and  George  Fox 
are  birds  of  a  feather!" 

Osmund's  voice  rose  above  the  uproar.  "What,  shall 
not  a  woman  learn,  and  if  she  will,  teach?  What,  shall  we 
give  only  to  men  the  good  fruit,  learning?  Shall  we  build 
schools,  uphold  universities,  for  men  only?  And  what, 
Great  Meadow!  If  a  woman  having  sought  and  found 
God,  wishes  to  speak  and  teach  of  her  travel  thither, 
of  the  ocean  and  the  ship  across  and  the  haven  and  the 
new  world,  shall  she  not  have  freedom  to  do  so?  A  man, 
having  made  that  voyage  and  knowing  the  priceless- 
ness  of  that  land,  displayeth  his  charts  and  persuadeth 
others  to  become  travellers!  Shall  not  woman,  voyager 
and  pilgrim  as  is  man,  have  here  man's  liberty?  So  cry 
George  Fox  and  the  people  called  Friends  and  they  are 
right!" 

"Ha,  ha!"  cried  the  rougher  folk.  "He  looks  like  a  man, 
but  mayhap  he  is  a  woman!  A  woman  preaching!"  A 
hand  went  down  to  earth,  picked  up  a  stone  and  flung  it. 
It  missed  Osmund,  struck  the  church  gate.  There  arose 
gross  laughter. 

"We  have  overthrown  the  King  and  the  Lords.  They 
may  come  again,  because  they  are  not  out  of  our  nature. 
But  now  we  say  that  they  are  overthrown!  And  we  say 
that  the  Commons  of  England  are  to  be  supreme.  We  say, 
4 They  govern  because  we  choose  them,  and  if  they  gov 
ern  not  aright,  we  may  take  them  back!'  We  say,  'They 
are  ourselves,  sitting  there;  we  have  chosen  them  our 
selves  from  ourselves.'  .  .  .  But  all  are  men,  chosen  by 
men.  O  England,  there  should  be  women  there  no  less  than 


400  THE  WANDERERS 

men!  Women  and  men  should  be  there,  chosen  by  women 
and  men!" 

The  more  hostile  element  uttered  a  kind  of  roar.  A  sec 
ond  stone  was  thrown.  The  constable  and  his  men  con 
sulted  among  themselves  if  they  should  at  once  arrest 
Osmund. 

"The  King!  —  What  use  to  kill  one  king,  when,  as 
many  men  as  are  in  England,  so  many  kings!  Kings  over 
children  —  but  children  grow  up  and  pass  from  under! 
But  kings  over  women  —  from  the  woman  child  to  the 
woman,  white-haired  in  her  coffin!  Generation  after  gen 
eration,  thousand  years  after  thousand,  sometimes  kindly 
and  sometimes  not,  and  always  unjust!  Foolishness  when 
we  cry,  'We  will  have  no  king!'  then,  going  home,  stamp 
foot  upon  the  threshold,  crying,  'Here  am  I  king!'  Mockery 
when  we  cry,  'The  land  is  without  kings!'  and  lo,  the  law 
gives  everywhere  the  woman  to  the  man,  saying,  'Here  is 
the  king!'" 

Rose  a  voice.  "It  is  enough!  He  is  speaking  against  law 
and  good  manners!  In  the  name  of  the  Commonwealth!" 

"We  have  sinned.  We  the  men,  and  we  the  women, 
we  the  one — " 

The  constable's  hand  fell  upon  Osmund's  arm.  .  .  . 
"Making  a  disturbance  and  stirring  up  sedition!  Come 
away  you  to  Justice  Thorne  .  .  ." 

He  and  his  men  came  about  Osmund,  pushed  him  from 
the  steps.  Ere  he  went,  he  saw  suddenly,  in  a  great  rift  of 
the  angry  cloud,  the  woman,  darkness  mixed  with  rose,  of 
the  thatcher's  cottage.  Her  lips  were  parted,  her  brows 
drawn  inward  and  upward,  and  many  a  thing  was  written 
upon  her  face. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  lost  sight  of  her.    Here  the 


THE   RIGHT   OF  KINGS  401 

violent  among  the  crowd  would  have  taken  hold  of  him. 
But  the  constable  was  a  huge,  brawny  fellow,  and  he  and 
his  helpers  beat  off  the  throng.  "Let  him  alone!  Let  him 
to  Justice  Thorne!  He  ain't  a  friend  to  such,  now  is  he?" 

Justice  Thorne  lived  in  the  town,  in  a  stone  house  where 
the  street  mounted  the  hill.  Here  went  Richard  Osmund, 
about  him  the  staves  of  the  constable  and  his  men.  Be 
hind  came  a  part  of  that  black  cloud,  and  it  laughed  and 
jeered  and  cried  hard  names.  The  way  was  not  long.  Here 
was  the  house,  and  the  justice's  parlour  and  the  justice  — 
an  old,  shrivelled  man  with  a  hawk  nose  and  cold,  dim 
eyes. 

And  Richard  Osmund  was  a  disturber  of  the  peace,  a 
pestilent,  notorious  fellow,  a  railer  against  law  and  good 
manners.  Justice  Thorne  made  short  work.  "Thou  fool 
and  rogue!  Thou  shalt  stand  three  hours  in  pillory!  Then 
shalt  thou  be  flung  out  of  town,  and  if  thou  comest  this 
way  again,  thou  shalt  find  yet  worse  fare!  —  Take  him 
away,  constable,  and  let  me  to  my  dinner  and  my  book!" 

Down  again  to  the  heart  of  Great  Meadow  went  law  and 
prisoner  and  the  attending,  triumphing  rabble.  So  Rich 
ard  Osmund  was  set  in  the  pillory. 

Three  hours  he  stood  there  while  Great  Meadow  turned 
to  its  business  of  that  market  day.  At  first  boys  pelted 
him  with  clods,  but  they  tired  after  a  time  and  rested  from 
that.  Persons  passed  him  continually.  Some  paused  to 
bestow  ridicule  and  abuse,  some  stared  without  speaking, 
some  passed,  with  turned  or  lowered  heads.  And  still  the 
day  shone  high  and  still  and  clear,  with  a  sky  of  even 
sapphire. 

Diccon  the  thatcher  came  by.  He  looked  around  and 
found  it  safe  to  speak.  "I  knew  't  would  happen  so! 


THE   WANDERERS 

Thunder  in  thunder  clouds,  and  danger  in  telling  people 
what  they  don't  want  to  know !  It 's  George  Fox  over  again ! 
—  When  you  're  put  out  of  Great  Meadow,  will  you  be 
going  on  to  Greenfield?" 

"Yes." 

"There's  an  old  grange  with  a  tower  two  miles  this  side 
Greenfield.  Friendly  people  live  in  it.  I  '11  get  your  white 
horse  there  to-night." 

"Thank  you  heartily,  friend!" 

"I'm  going  home  now.  ...  A  strange  thing  I  notice," 
pursued  the  thatcher,  "and  that  is  that  men  like  George 
Fox  and  you  are  n't  cast  down.  To  have  light  and  food 
where  there  is  no  light  and  food,  and  still  to  stand,  though 
men  have  cast  you  down  —  that,  it  seems  to  me,  is  a 
marvellous  and  a  darling  thing!" 

Nodding  his  head,  he  went  on  by,  going  toward  his  cot 
tage  east  of  town. 

Osmund  stood  patiently  in  the  pillory  in  the  middle  of 
Great  Meadow.  In  the  year  and  more  of  this  travelling  up 
and  down  in  England  he  had  not  infrequently  tasted 
treatment  in  this  like.  Sometimes  it  had  been  better,  some 
times  worse.  He  was  glad  that  this  time  it  was  not  im 
prisonment.  The  festering  gaols  were  the  worst  things. 
At  no  time  was  there  sense  in  flinching  or  being  melan 
choly.  So  he  put  off  shuddering  of  flesh  and  dismalness  of 
mind.  Pinioned  there  he  was  not  unhappy.  In  Great  Mea 
dow,  even,  he  had  in  part  said  his  say.  It  might  live,  that 
seed,  bearing  fruit  when  he  was  dead  and  gone.  A  day 
would  come  when  many  more  than  he  would  see  that  free 
dom  and  follow  it  simply.  Just  as  there  were  many  free 
doms  that  Richard  Osmund  could  not  yet  see,  but  would 
one  day  see.  .  .  .  His  spirit  stood  light  and  steady.  He 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS  403 

had  much  to  think  of,  much  to  remember,  he  had  faith, 
hope,  and  charity,  he  had  vision. 

The  first  hour  went  by,  the  second  was  not  far  from 
being  gone.  The  spectacle  was  become  trite  to  Great 
Meadow.  The  chaffering,  the  buying  and  selling,  had 
long  been  resumed.  Only  now  and  then  came  a  wave 
toward  the  pillory.  One  or  two  or  more  persons  might 
linger  about,  staring,  silent  or  abusive,  but  compared  with 
the  first  half-hour  there  was  solitude.  Osmund  stood  as 
though  he  were  chained  to  a  desert  rock.  Houses,  booths, 
the  square  church  tower  dissolved  in  light.  There  rolled  a 
golden  desert,  there  quivered  tops  of  palm  trees. 

Came  by  the  thatcher's  cousin,  the  woman  of  a  darkness 
mixed  with  rose.  Most  women  passed  the  pillory  quickly, 
with  heads  turned  aside  or  down  bent.  This  woman  stood 
still,  her  hands  straight  by  her  sides,  her  head  lifted.  Her 
eyes  gazed  into  Osmund's  eyes.  Then  came  between  a 
drift  of  idle  folk.  When  he  could  see  beyond  them,  she  had 
vanished.  There  rolled  the  golden  desert,  there  waved  the 
fronds  of  palm. 

The  second  hour  was  over,  the  third  hour  fast  waning. 
It  ebbed,  it  went  away  with  a  ringing  of  church  bells. 
Here  now  were  the  constable  and  his  helpers.  As  the 
church  bells  clanged,  great  part  of  Great  Meadow  turned 
from  market  and  other  business  to  see  Richard  Osmund 
put  out  of  town. 

Great  Meadow  was  not  so  great  that  it  was  far  to  its 
outermost  confine.  Many  hands  upon  him,  with  gibes  and 
abusive  laughter,  Osmund  was  thrust  by  the  green,  by  the 
chief  street,  toward  the  town  edge.  It  was>  the  rim  opposite 
the  rim  through  which  he  had  entered.  He  had  been  deep 
into  Great  Meadow;  that  which  he  taught  had  perhaps 


404  THE   WANDERERS 

traced  a  path,  a  faint  guiding  line,  making  easier  the  next 
treading.  Men  could  push  out  that  which  they  called 
Richard  Osmund,  but  to  push  out  what  mind  has  brought 
into  mind  —  that  is  a  different  thing!  They  thrust  along 
Osmund's  body.  Here  was  the  edge  of  Great  Meadow  and 
beyond  these  last  houses  a  barren,  uneven  field  with  a 
ragged  copse  by  a  thread  of  a  stream,  and  across  all  went 
the  westward  stretching  high  road. 

And  here  too  was  a  black  cloud  with  harm  in  its  bosom. 
A  part  of  this  throng  had  come  along  with  constable  and 
prisoner,  and  a  part  had  dropped  employment  merely  to 
see  what  was  to  be  seen,  streaming  out,  men  and  women, 
from  the  various  ways  and  lanes,  and  a  part,  when  the 
hour  struck,  had  hurried  out  ahead  into  the  wild  field 
that  mounted  here  to  the  hill  and  descended  there  to  the 
river.  And  this  last  group  had  furnished  itself  with  sticks 
and  stones.  The  constable  loosened  his  hold  of  Osmund. 
"Now  you're  out  of  Great  Meadow  bounds!  My  duty  by 
you  is  done.  Trudge!" 

The  constable  turned  his  back.  As  if  to  get  the  law  out 
of  the  way,  he  drew  off  with  his  helpers.  Osmund  shook 
himself,  took  breath,  and  made  to  step  soberly  forward 
upon  the  onward  going  road.  He  saw  the  dark  third  of 
Great  Meadow  with  its  sticks  and  stones  and  knew  that 
the  law  did  not  mean  at  once  or  soon  to  interfere. 

The  sun  stood  low  in  the  west.  A  faint  red  light  lay  like 
a  veil  over  earth.  That  part  of  Great  Meadow  gath 
ered  here  without  great  malice,  or  without  malice  at  all, 
hung  a  moment,  then  began  to  dissolve  into  the  village. 
Arose  an  uncertain  murmur  with,  more  loudly,  voices 
and  counter-voices.  A  young  man,  too  often  at  the  Green 
Wreath,  lifting  a  ragged  staff,  struck  Osmund.  An  older 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS  405 

man  behind  him  cried  with  a  bull  voice:  "Who  says  woman 
is  equal  with  man  denies  Scripture!  Among  men  and  women 
only  witches  and  wizards  have  equal  learning  and  power! 
Be  sure  he  is  a  wizard  and  leads  a  lewd  and  fearful  life!" 
With  that  the  storm  broke.  The  hesitants,  men  and  a  few 
women,  stiffened,  stayed  to  see  what  would  do  the  dark 
core  of  the  mob. 

Out  of  this  fringe  of  spectators  came  a  woman.  She  did 
not  come  slowly,  she  came  swiftly.  Osmund,  beaten  by 
stave  and  fist  to  his  knee,  found  her  beside  him,  the  woman 
of  the  thatcher's  cottage.  .  .  .  Around  and  around,  sud 
denly  again,  stretched  wide  space,  wide,  clear  and  golden. 
Above  and  below  time  changed  into  eternity.  Form, 
frame  and  tissue  seemed  to  move,  expand.  It  was  as  if 
two  released  spirits  met  in  a  larger  world.  .  .  .  Then,  with 
a  thunder  clap,  here  was  the  close  to-day  and  a  hand's- 
breadth  of  English  field. 

He  rose  beside  her.  "Ah,  the  great  cowards!"  she  cried. 
"  Ah,  the  wrong  for  so  long  that  the  wish  for  the  right  must 
be  reborn!  Ah,  men!  And  ah,  you  women  who  are  here! 
Ah,  you  women,  you  greater  cowards!  Ah,  women,  women! 
you  and  I  —  cowards,  cowards!  —  But  now  will  I  turn  on 
Fear!" 

The  crowd  raised  its  voice  against  her.  "Who  is  it?  — 
It  is  Miriam  Donne,  Diccon  the  thatcher's  gypsy  cousin!" 

Her  look,  her  raised  arm  held  them.  "What  will  you 
do  to  this  man?  Why  do  you  beat  him  down?  Because  he 
cries  to  you,  'Slaver,  cease  to  enslave!'  You  men,  I  cry 
the  same!  And  you  women,  unstirring  —  watching  harm 
done  and  unstirring!  Never  were  souls  enslaved,  but  those 
souls  enslaved  themselves — " 

Great  Meadow,  out  there  upon  the  edge  of  Great  Mea- 


406  THE   WANDERERS 

dow,  burst  into  a  roar:  "A  lewd  man  and  a  lewd  woman! 
A  wizard  and  a  witch!"  But  one  of  the  women  —  there 
were  not  many  women  —  cried  shame  upon  the  mob,  and 
to  let  the  two  alone,  and  to  let  them  go.  But  the  mob 
began  to  throw  stones  and  to  lash  itself  into  a  more  reck 
less  rage.  A  woman  lifted  a  shrill  voice:  "She  is  a  strange 
woman —  a  witch!  None  of  us  could  make  her  out!  She 
came  to  Great  Meadow  just  a  week  ago.  Be  sure  they 
have  been  together!"  A  man  midway  the  crowd  cried, 
"Fornicators!"  Voices  rushed  together  into  a  roar,  "Forni- 
cators!  Wizard!  Witch!"  Led  by  the  young  man  who  had 
been  too  often  to  the  Green  Wreath  the  wave  broke  in 
fury  upon  Osmund  and  Miriam. 

The  constable,  quite  within  the  town  bounds,  but  with 
his  head  over  his  shoulder,  found  that  he  must  return  with 
his  helpers.  He  threatened  sending  for  Justice  Thorne.  .  .  . 
When  it  would,  the  rabble  desisted.  It  did  not  want  to 
kill,  it  only  wanted  to  make  life  sore  and  afraid.  It  thought 
that  it  must  have  accomplished  that. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  go  down,  the  air  growing  darker 
and  cooler.  The  day  and  all  its  adventures  was  over.  .  .  . 
Let  them  go! 

The  village  mob,  more  silent  than  it  had  been,  began  to 
withdraw  into  Great  Meadow.  Its  lust  for  fighting  with 
hands  against  an  idea  was  glutted;  it  thought  that  the 
idea  was  dead.  The  crowd  drifted  fast  away.  Amber  light 
was  upon  the  ragged  field  and  the  westward-flowing  road. 

The  man  and  woman,  who  had  been  sore  beaten,  rose 
from  earth  to  their  knees,  to  their"  feet.  Torn  and  bruised, 
stained  with  dust  and  blood,  they  leaned  against  a  trampled 
bank,  they  drew  breath,  with  their  hands  they  pressed  the 
mist  from  their  eyes.  The  red  sun  was  half  down,  the  copse 


THE   RIGHT   OF   KINGS  407 

by  the  stream  was  shaking  and  sighing.  "If  you  can  walk, 
you  had  .better  be  gone!"  advised  the  constable.  Ten 
miles  to  Greenfield!"  He  looked  aslant  at  the  dark 
woman.  "Diccon  the  thatcher  used  to  be  in  good  repute 
enough,  but  5t  is  n't  so  now!  He's  took  to  going  to  Foxite 
meetings.  If  you'd  win  to  his  house  again,  you'd  better 
go  by  the  field  and  the  water  and  the  backside  o'  town.  But 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  it's  my  belief  that  trouble  for 
you  in  Great  Meadow  is  just  begun!" 

Miriam  Donne  drew  her  loosened  long  hair  over  her 
shoulder  and  began  to  braid  it  with  swift  fingers.  Her  eyes 
and  Osmund's  met  in  a  long  look.  "Richard  Osmund  and 
I  will  walk  together.  Here  we  will  find  life  and  here  we  will 
find  death,  here  we  will  find  grace  and  here  we  will  find 
bitter  herbs,  for  that  is  the  way  the  world  is  strewn!  .  .  . 
But,  Master  Constable,  I  would  have  you  wit  that  my 
Cousin  Diccon  knows  little  of  me  and  my  ways,  seeing  that 
I  came  to  his  house  but  a  week  ago.  Do  not  touch  him  for 
ways  of  mine.  And  now,  farewell,  Great  Meadow!" 

She  stood  straight,  her  hair  braided,  her  eyes  clear. 
Osmund  put  out  his  hand.  She  laid  hers  in  it.  They  moved 
across  the  trampled  place;  as  the  red  sun  vanished,  they 
took  the  high  road.  Behind  them  a  lingering  edge  of  Great 
Meadow  shouted  and  gibed.  A  stone  that  was  flung  went 
by,  stirring  the  dust  before  them.  They  walked  on,  fol 
lowing  the  sun. 

The  road  crossed  the  stream.  When  they  had  gone 
over  the  bridge,  the  copse  and  the  twilight  somewhat  hid 
from  them  Great  Meadow.  Sound  died  away,  the  village 
left  the  circle  of  consciousness.  A  plain  lay  before  them 
pierced  by  the  road  going  toward  the  yet  lighted  sky. 
The  evening  wind  breathed  around  them,  the  rich  dusk 


4o8  THE   WANDERERS 

gained,  the  evening  star  shone  out.  .  .  .  Desert  spaces  — 
far  clumps  of  trees  like  palm  trees. 

They  moved  slowly,  for  they  had  been  savagely  beaten. 
But  the  interior  sphere  knew  bliss.  "Where  shall  we  go  — 
what  shall  we  do  —  we  who  never  met  before  to-day  and 
have  met  thousands  of  times  before  to-day?" 

"Myriads  of  times.  So  blessedly  true  it  is  that  we  are 
one!" 

"So  blessedly  true!" 

"Near  Greenfield,  in  the  country,  live  a  family  of  the 
people  called  Friends.  Let  us  go  there  first." 

They  moved  across  the  plain.  The  stars  were  all  lighted. 
Theirs  were  the  worlds  beneath,  around,  above  and 
within. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JEAN  AND  ESPERANCE 

MUCH  of  the  city  must  have  slept  at  night.  But  so 
much  of  it  waked,  so  much  of  it  roamed  the  streets, 
pressed  with  business,  or  watching  and  hearkening  to 
others  pressed  with  business,  so  much  of  it,  all  night 
through,  burned  candles  in  rooms  great  and  small,  so 
much  of  it  talked,  harangued  and  chanted  that  a  visitor, 
suddenly  in  presence  from  afar,  might  have  asked,  "Have 
you  conquered  sleep?"  Presumably  children  and  the  very 
old  slept.  Most  others  seemed  in  the  streets  or  in  the  lighted 
rooms,  or  upon  the  floors  or  in  the  galleries  of  the  red- 
capped,  and  tri-coloured,  the  haranguing,  the  fierce  and 
red-hot,  the  immensely  Patriot,  the  double-distilled  rev 
olutionary  clubs.  The  city  was  fevered,  fevered!  Voices 
never  stopped,  footfalls  never  stopped,  small  surging, 
rushing  sound  of  many  patriot  feet  together  never  stopped. 
Lights  never  went  out.  At  the  deadest  hour,  when  the 
night  side  of  earth  has  almost  forgotten  the  sun,  yet  rose 
in  the  streets  voices  of  proclamation,  yet  some  speaker 
found  a  group  to  address,  yet  somewhere  beat  a  drum,  yet 
somewhere,  gusts  of  wind  in  leaves,  Paris  whirled  in 
Ronde  patriotique,  later  to  be  called  Carmagnole. 

Jacobins1  Club.  They  sat,  they  stood,  they  harangued, 
they  applauded,  they  dissented,  they  stayed  late  in  the 
Club  of  the  Jacobins.  At  times  they  stayed  all  night,  gods 
denouncing  the  old  Titans.  The  gods,  an  unnamed  Titan 
in  their  own  element,  had  all  the  nave  of  the  Jacobins' 


4io  THE   WANDERERS 

church.  Up  from  pavement  to  hollow  roof,  tier  on  tier, 
climbed  the  benches,  narrow  stairs  and  galleries  giving 
access.  Thus  was  made  circle  above  circle  for  patriot 
Paris,  for  patriot  provinces  come  up  to  Paris,  for  forward- 
looking,  revolutionary-minded  units  drawn  to  Paris  from 
the  elsewhere  world,  come  to  observe  France  and  Paris 
and  the  cradle  turnings  of  a  mighty  Change.  Circle  above 
circle  sat  full,  even  crowded.  The  topmost  circle,  putting 
up  its  hand,  might  touch  the  groined  roof.  The  lowermost 
circle,  shuffling  feet  on  pavement,  must  look  up  a  little 
to  the  platform  and  the  seated  officers  of  the  Society. 

The  platform  was  built  against  a  pyramidal,  tall  shape 
of  black  marble,  a  sepulchral  monument  left  in  the  Church 
of  the  Jacobins.  Back  of  officers  were  ranged,  each  in 
white  plaster,  each  on  his  pedestal,  busts  of  Patriots  whom 
men  must  honour.  Here  were  Mirabeau,  American  Frank 
lin,  and  others.  The  lower  throng  of  the  amphitheatre 
faced  these  and  the  platform.  But  midway  from  floor  to 
roof  the  circles  drew  level  with  the  tribune.  The  tribune 
was  built  high,  built  very  high,  and  midmost  of  the  nave.  A 
light  stair  climbed  to  it.  Up  here,  as  from  a  Simeon's  Pil 
lar,  as  from  a  fount,  hill-top  high,  came  the  voices  address 
ing  the  Jacobins'  Society,  Paris,  France,  Europe,  and 
America,  Mankind,  Reason,  and  Unreason. 

The  autumn  it  was  of  1791.  In  the  Tuileries,  guarded  by 
red  Swiss,  still  waked  or  slept  as  the  case  might  be,  a 
King  and  his  family.  The  old  Constituent  Assembly  had 
passed  away;  a  new  Assembly  was  beginning  what  work  it 
might  do.  In  the  prisons  waked  or  slept  Suspects,  but  the 
prisons  were  not  filled  as  they  would  come  to  be  filled. 
Hope  of  a  world  that  must  change,  changing  temperately 
—  it  was  still  possible  to  indulge  that  hope!  Even  in 


JEAN   AND  ESPERANCE  411 

nightly  meetings  of  the  Society  of  the  Jacobins  it  might  be 
indulged.  The  gods  had  not  yet  loosed  the  mad  god.  They 
were  going  to  war  to  the  end  with  the  Titans,  but  there 
seemed  room  for  hope  that  these  might  be  vanquished 
without  calling  in  the  ghastly  allies,  the  monsters  of  the 
gods'  own  deeps.  There  was  room  for  pure  natures  to  be 
lieve  that.  Why  should  victory  be  a  Pyrrhic  victory? 

The  Club  of  the  Jacobins  on  an  autumn  night,  and  a 
fever  of  thought,  crescent  thought  and  senescent  thought; 
concepts,  rulers  to  come,  hardly  out  of  swaddling  bands,  and 
concepts  tottering,  failing,  old  men  fiercely  loth  to  come 
to  the  grave.  Thought  in  a  fever,  and  emotion  a  boiling 
deep.  .  .  . 

The  circles,  red-capped,  glowed  like  poppy  beds.  But 
the  poppies  stood  not  for  sleep,  nor  for  languorous  "let  the 
world  go  daffing  by!"  Noise  ran  and  leaped  through  all  the 
circles,  fierce  outbursts  of  "Yes!"  and  "No!"  —  fierce, 
exultant  laughter,  fierce  muttering  and  growling  of  dissent. 
At  times  the  myriad-brained  produced  from  the  heights 
of  itself  clearness,  intelligence,  and  nobility.  These  were 
halcyon  times,  clear  intelligence  in  the  tribune,  clear  intel 
ligence  in  the  circles!  The  next  hour,  intelligence  might 
weaken  and  doze  away,  and  all  the  past  rise  in  murk  and 
storm. 

From  the  tribune  many  and  many  had  spoken,  tongues 
eloquent  and  tongues  stumbling,  heavy-laden,  minds  of 
varying  scope.  Darkness  and  cold  had  spoken,  and  dark 
ness  and  heat.  Glowing  heat  had  often  spoken.  Now  and 
then  light  spoke.  Hunger  spoke,  hunger  of  the  body,  hun 
ger  of  the  mind,  hunger  of  the  spirit,  hunger  and  longing 
and  all  in  varying  degrees. 

The  night  was  September.    Above  Paris  the  cauldron 


THE   WANDERERS 

hung  a  tranquil  sky,  a  great  full  moon.  The  cauldron 
boiled  and  bubbled,  it  sent  forth  restless  particles,  rising 
steam-mist,  colours,  blue  and  green  and  wine-red,  scintil 
lating.  Where  rose  the  ancient  Church  of  the  Jacobins, 
where  debated  the  Revolutionary  Society,  called  of  the 
Jacobins,  the  cauldron  boiled  intensest. 

The  circles  swept  crowded  from  pavement  to  roof  with 
patriots,  citoyens,  citoyenneSj  Parisians,  provincials,  citi 
zens  of  elsewhere  in  the  world,  dreamers,  hopers,  and 
builders,  sometimes  with  clouds,  dwellers  in  Idea-land. 
Back  of  the  platform,  of  the  gleaming  busts  of  Patriots, 
flags  were  draped.  There  were  old  Ideas  made  visible! 
Why  should  not  other  and  greater  Ideas  get  their  incarna 
tion? 

Upon  the  president's  platform,  beside  the  president  and 
lesser  officers  of  the  Jacobins'  Society,  sat,  tricolour- 
cockaded,  three  or  four  who  might  speak  this  night, 
mounting  the  tribune  high-raised  between  pavement  and 
dome.  One  speaker  was  there  now,  a  bulky  Patriot,  dark- 
visaged,  black-headed,  with  a  great  voice  that  boomed 
and  reverberated  in  the  nave  of  the  Jacobins.  And  he 
was  a  favourite,  and  the  circles  applauded.  Passionate 
he  waxed,  sublime  upon  the  Rights  of  Man! 

At  last  he  made  an  end,  though  still  he  spoke,  coming 
down  the  stair,  and  while  he  made  his  way  across  the 
crowded  pavement.  The  Jacobins  applauded  like  a  roar 
ing  wind,  up  and  down  the  poppies  shook! 

The  president  rang  his  bell.  He  was  speaking  of  the 
next  speaker  —  a  Patriot  from  the  South.  The  Patriot 
from  the  South,  nimble  and  dark,  climbed  the  tribune 
stair  and  from  the  space  atop  saluted  every  quarter  of  the 
Jacobins,  then  fell  to  speaking,  fierily  and  well.  He  had 


JEAN   AND  ESPERANCE  413 

for  subject  kings  in  their  palaces,  aristocrats  entrenched, 
and  National  Assemblies  too  fondly  dandling  the  past. 
The  Jacobins  roared  assent,  by  acclamation  gave  him  more 
than  his  set  time.  When  he  was  done  the  circles  were  like 
a  red  sea  in  storm. 

The  president  rang  his  bell  thrice.  .  .  .  Here  in  the 
tribune  stood  an  Englishman,  slow  but  weighty,  member 
of  the  London  Corresponding  Society,  friend  of  Revolu 
tions.  He  spoke  of  Independence,  of  the  Power  of  the 
Mind,  of  the  decaying  foundations  of  Oppressions,  of  fair 
play  and  equal  way,  of  the  True,  the  Beautiful,  and  the 
Good,  lastly  of  the  call  to  action  very  fully  provided  by 
this  moment  in  the  World-Epic.  .  .  .  The  Jacobins  ap 
plauded  because  they  felt  friendly  toward  English  friends 
of  Liberty,  and  because,  indeed,  many  sat  there  who  could 
listen  absorbed  to  speech  of  abstractions.  The  English 
man  ended,  went  with  his  cool  deliberateness  back  to  the 
platform.  The  president's  bell  rang.  .  .  . 

In  the  circles  were  very  many  women;  in  all  Paris  and 
France  women  were  afoot  while  men  rode.  Women  as 
spectators,  as  consolers,  encouragers,  applauders,  inciters, 
women  as  maenad  participants,  priestesses  of  the  march 
ing  god,  furies  when  there  was  need  for  furies  —  France 
and  Paris  understood  these!  In  the  circles  sat  citoyennes 
enough.  Often  enough,  passionate  and  fluent  enough,  cito 
yennes  sprang  to  their  feet  and  harangued,  urging  bread  fcr 
their  young,  freedom  du  peuple,  bread  —  bread!  Women, 
to-night,  had  place  in  all  the  circles,  the  higher,  the  mid 
most  and  the  lower, — attendants'  place,  sympathizers',  en 
couragers'  place,  under  due  orders,  participants'  place.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  platform,  on  the  bench  behind  the  president, 
sat,  with  those  who  had  earlier  spoken,  a  man  and  a 


4H  THE   WANDERERS 

woman.  Behind  them  gleamed  the  flags  and  the  Patriots' 
busts  and  the  great  monument  of  black  marble.  The  man 
and  woman  seemed  about  of  an  age,  just  this  side  perhaps 
of  thirty-five.  They  were  well-made,  fair  to  look  upon, 
light  and  strong,  dressed,  needfully,  with  simplicity,  but 
here,  where  that  was  not  required,  with  a  clean  simplicity. 
They  sat  looking  into  the  hollow  of  the  Jacobins,  into 
the  resounding  shell. 

The  president's  bell  rang.  Standing,  he  was  speaking 
of  these  two  whom  he  himself  had  brought  here  to-night, 
of  Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin.  It  seemed  that  they  had 
come  from  Brittany,  from  the  sea,  drawn  to  Paris,  as 
others  were  drawn,  because  it  announced  itself  soil  for  the 
sowing  of  Ideas.  It  seemed  that  Jean  Merlin  was  a  teacher 
who  taught  in  a  way  that  was  not  usual  —  a  way  that  he 
and  his  wife  had  worked  out  together  —  Esperance  Merlin 
no  less  than  Jean.  It  seemed  also  that  they  were  good,  if 
quiet,  lovers  of  France  and  that  they  had  long  and  heroi 
cally  relieved  misery  in  their  town  by  the  sea.  It  seemed 
that  once  they  had  done  the  speaker  a  kindness  —  a  kind 
ness  that  he  had  never  forgotten.  If  their  ideas  should  ring 
strange  to  some  .  .  .  Still,  in  that  beautiful  future  that  all 
might  plainly  see,  many  ideas  that  once  rang  strange  .  .  . 
"Citoyens,  citoyennes,  the  Society  of  the  Jacobins  is  hos 
pitable  to  Ideas!  They  come  to  us  upon  the  clouds,  from 
east  and  west  and  north  and  south.  And  some  we  will  take 
to  heart  and  some  we  will  not,  but  we  will  give  to  all  a 
hearing.  We  shall  not  be  afraid  of  strangeness.  .  .  .  Jean 
and  Esperance  Merlin!" 

Speakers  to-night  to  the  Jacobins  had  each  but  short 
time.  When  the  tribune  was  done,  the  floor,  the  galleries, 
the  circles  must  speak.  Now  the  red  caps  moved  about, 


JEAN  AND  ESPERANCE  415 

the  voices  strongly  murmured  like  a  turbulent  sea.  Then 
the  sea  settled  to  hear  Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin. 

The  two  mounted  together  the  tribune  stair.  The  man 
stood  first  in  the  speaker's  place,  the  woman  sat  down 
upon  the  topmost  stair,  awaiting  her  turn.  A  few  in  the 
hall  of  the  Jacobins  knew  them,  or  knew  of  them,  of  what 
they  did  and  thought  in  their  country  by  the  sea.  These 
applauded.  Jean  Merlin  began  to  speak. 

Presently  he  motioned  to  the  seated  woman.  She  rose 
and  stood  beside  him.  She  spoke,  he  resting  from  speech. 
Her  voice  was  a  deep  bell,  carrying  through  the  Jacobins' 
amphitheatre.  She  spoke  of  the  Freeing  of  Women.  The 
sweet  and  deep  bell  sound  of  her  voice  ceased;  she  stood 
silent  while  the  man  took  the  word.  Again,  the  Freeing  of 
Women.  Freedom  of  Man  and  Freedom  of  Woman.  The 
two  speakers  had  simplicity,  largeness,  and  strength;  they 
had  holding  power.  Deep  and  wide  by  now  was  their 
wisdom-garden,  and  beautiful,  at  times,  the  light  that 
played  there. 

What  they  had  come  to  say  was  said.  They  quitted  the 
tribune,  descended  the  tribune  stair.  In  the  hall  of  the 
Jacobins  those  travellers  abreast  with  them,  or  close  be 
hind  them,  gave  them  applauding  recognition.  But  very 
many  disagreed,  and  some  gave  fierce  expression  to  that 
disagreement.  The  two  reached  the  floor,  stood  there 
among  the  throng.  The  president's  bell  rang  and  rang 
again.  .  .  .  Here  was  a  Patriot,  urging  from  the  tribune 
Fetes  and  Demonstrations.  The  poppy  circles  were  giving 
ear.  On  went  the  night  in  the  Society  of  the  Jacobins. 

Continuously  persons  entered  or  quitted  the  amphi 
theatre.  The  coming  and  going  received  no  especial  atten 
tion.  On  went  the  voices,  the  emotional  heat,  rapturous 


4i 6  THE   WANDERERS 

agreements,  sudden  and  violent  disagreements.  .  .  .  Jean 
and  Esperance  Merlin  rose  at  last  from  a  bench  in  the 
shadow  of  that  monument  of  black  marble  and,  unob 
served  by  most,  went  out  of  the  Church  of  the  Jacobins. 
Near  the  door  stood  together  a  woman  and  a  man.  As 
Esperance  approached,  the  woman  stepped  forward;  she 
put  out  her  hand  and  touched  the  hand  of  Esperance.  "I 
a  man  Englishwoman,"  she  said.  "Mary  Wollstonecraft. 
I  cry  'yea'  to  what  you  said!" 

Forth  from  the  Society  of  the  Jacobins,  in  the  street, 
the  two  looked  up  to  the  heavens  and  the  round  moon. 
After  heat  and  noise  within  here  seemed  infinite  stillness 
and  balm.  The  next  moment  the  fevered  heart  beats,  the 
fevered  breathing  of  the  city  made  themselves  felt;  the 
outward  stillness  and  balm  were  gone.  The  fancy  of  each 
turned  to  their  house  by  the  sea,  the  cliffs  and  the  sand 
and  the  sea  and  the  world  behind  the  sea.  "Shall  we  go 
back  soon?" 

"Shall  we?  ...  This  sea  also  calls  for  sailors." 
They  had  rented  a  clean,  topmost  floor  in  a  house  by  the 
Seine.  Now  they  made  their  way  thither  through  the  un- 
solitary,  the  still  sounding  streets.  Up  many  steps  they 
climbed,  past  doors  of  other  occupants  of  the  house.  They 
unlocked  and  went  in  at  their  own  door.  Only  the  roof 
stood  now  between  them  and  the  sky  of  night.  Moreover, 
there  stretched  a  lower  and  jutting  bit  of  roof,  parapetted, 
and  reached  by  a  door  opening  from  one  of  their  two  rooms. 
They  lighted  a  candle;  seated  at  a  clean,  bare  table  they 
ate  a  little  bread,  drank  a  little  wine,  then,  rising,  put  out 
the  candle  and  stepped  from  that  other  door  out  upon 
the  guarded  bit  of  roof.  Here  they  had  placed  a  bench. 
Now  they  sat  down  upon  this,  their  arms  upon  the  para- 


JEAN  AND  ESPERANCE  417 

pet,  above  and  around  them  the  splendour  of  the  night. 
They  were  up  so  high  that  the  sound  of  the  streets  came 
muted,  coalesced,  like  an  ever  running,  even  running 
stream.  For  a  time  they  kept  silence,  then  they  talked, 
though  with  silences  between  their  words. 

"Put  what  will  come  on  the  top  of  the  moment  away. 
.  .  .  The  moonlight  .  .  .  and  thou  and  I." 

"Thou  and  I." 

"The  long,  the  terrible,  entrancing,  ugly,  and  beautiful 
past!" 

"And  now  all  welcome.  Rich  ground  for  the  fruit  tree!" 

"The  without  comes  within  .  .  .  and  is  made  lovely." 

"And  makes  in  time  a  without  lovelier  than  the  first. 
,  .  .  And  it  goes  on.  .  .  .  To  dwell  in  the  wondrous  centre!" 

They  sat  quiet.  The  sunlight  poured  upon  the  moon, 
the  foam  and  spray  back  springing  gave  light  to  night 
time  earth.  "Thou  and  I.  ...  It  is  a  night  for  memory!" 

"I  hear  a  voice  singing  in  the  street.  Do  you  remem 
ber—" 

"  .  .  .  Fiery  death.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  a  Greek 
town?" 

"Yes,  painfully.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  much  that  I  remember!" 

"The  detail  sunken,  but  the  touch  and  the  taste  and  the 
odour  still.  When  we  wronged  each  the  other — " 

"Long  past  that  —  long  past!" 

"And  when  we  loved  and  helped  each  the  other  —  and 
the  amount  and  the  bliss  of  that  grows!" 

"The  old  wronging  was  in  ignorance." 

"In  ignorance." 

The  moon  shone,  the  night  wind  breathed,  the  murmur 
of  the  streets  lessened  as  the  night  grew  old.  The  two 
went  in  from  the  roof,  lay  soon  in  deep  sleep.  In  the 


4i  8  THE  WANDERERS 

morning  they  waked,  then  dressed  and  breakfasted,  then 
stepped  again  upon  the  parapetted  bit  of  roof.  Paris  lay 
in  an  early,  a  rosy  light.  They  stood  and  gazed,  and  they 
saw  round  and  round  beyond  Paris.  Presently,  leaving 
the  roof  and  the  two  high-built  rooms,  they  went  down 
into  the  streets. 

Autumn  waned  and  with  it  hope  of  temperate  change. 
Change  was  no  less  needed,  no  less  inevitable,  but  change, 
it  was  seen,  still  wore  a  red  garment.  The  time  for  her 
white  garments  delayed,  delayed.  Still  blood-red.  .  .  . 

Winter  waxed  and  waned;  spring  was  here  and  summer, 
summer  of  France.  Here  in  the  human  heart  of  France 
was  winter,  and  here  it  was  torrid  heat.  September 
breathed  over  the  land,  but  here  in  the  heart  of  France 
the  winter  deepened,  and  here  the  heat  encreased,  en- 
creased.  Flame  and  murk  in  this  heart  of  France,  and  the 
angel  Alteration,  red  without  as  a  demon.  .  .  . 

Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin  did  not  go  back  to  the  house 
by  the  sea.  It  held  them  —  Paris.  Even  in  this  to-day  of 
the  world  children  must  have  schooling.  The  two  from  the 
sea  made  a  school  in  the  storey  beneath  the  storey  of  the 
two  rooms  and  the  parapetted  roof.  Here,  each  forenoon, 
they  taught  children  of  Paris,  ten  in  all.  They  taught 
after  the  method  the  two  had  worked  out,  long  years  by 
the  sea.  Here  as  there  it  answered,  making  happy  children, 
learning  happily. 

That  half  of  the  day  gone,  the  children  gone,  the  two  in 
the  rooms  up  under  the  roof  ate  their  frugal,  wholesome 
meal,  rested,  then  when  the  sun  was  in  the  western  quar 
ter,  went  down  into  Paris. 

They  never  mistook  that  there  was  an  angel  underneath 
the  red  demon  garb.  They  had  been  far  in  the  world.  .  .  . 


JEAN   AND  ESPERANCE  419 

But  in  the  autumn  of  1792  Alteration  stood  fearful  to 
look  upon.  Strongly,  strongly  was  the  angel  imprisoned 
and  straitened  in  the  demon. 

In  August  the  prisons  were  choked.  In  September  Paris 
grew  blood-red. 

Still  Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin  kept  their  school  to 
gether;  still,  before  they  slept,  they  sat  upon  the  guarded 
roof  with  the  stars  above,  the  earth  beneath;  still  through 
the  free  half  of  the  day  they  went  out  into  Paris.  They 
saw  the  angel  and  the  demon;  knew  that  they  could  only 
know  both  because  they  were  formed  of  both  —  and  strove 
with  incessancy  to  sublime  the  demon. 

At  last  they  could  keep  school  no  longer.  .  .  . 

They  came  down  into  the  street  and  heard  the  tocsin, 
as  they  had  heard  it  for  days  before.  A  multitude  was  in 
the  street.  Hoof  sound  and  wheel  sound,  and  here  was  a 
carriage  going  heavily  over  the  paving-stones.  Behind  it 
laboured  a  second  and  a  third,  "Non-jurant  priests  and 
Aristocrats  going  to  prison  — "  One  in  the  multitude  flung 
a  stone;  others  ran  before  the  horses,  made  a  wall  that 
stopped  them.  The  coachman  flung  down  the  reins,  got 
from  the  boxes.  Overhead  the  bells  were  making  a  wild 
and  rapid  sound.  Red  everywhere —  and  a  sudden  sprout 
ing,  like  March  points  above  the  earth,  of  pike  and  sabre. 

Those  who  had  been  crowded  into  the  carriages  came 
forth  and  stood  in  the  street  with  blanched  faces  and  a 
trembling  of  the  limbs.  There  were  men  and  there  were 
women.  "  Citoyens,  we,  like  you,  have  wished  in  our  hearts 
to  do  right — " 

"The  liars!"  cried  a  small  man  with  a  cutlass,  and 
leaped  upon  one  of  the  slighter  prisoners.  Frenzy  loosened, 
shrieked. 


420  THE  WANDERERS 

The  traces  had  been  cut,  the  horses  taken  away.  The 
threatened  men  and  women  pressed  close  to  the  carriage 
bodies,  the  wheels,  finding  here  a  momentary  wall  to  stand 
against.  The  first,  the  second  wall  were  dragged  away,  the 
prisoners  massacred. 

Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin,  coming  into  the  street  from 
their  house,  faced  the  third  carriage  and  the  miserable  ones 
pressed  against  it.  ...  The  two  made  way  through  the 
shouting  throng,  stood  before  the  prisoners.  In  the  oppos 
ing  and  threatening  mass,  drawn  from  these  by-streets, 
they  saw  more  than  one  or  two  whose  children  they  had 
taught.  "Citoyens!  Shall  we  be  tyrants,  slaying  because 
it  is  not  hard  to  slay?  What  value  in  the  New  if  it  be  not 
more  blissful-fearless  than  the  Old!  Wisdom  in  our  hearts 
—  mercy  for  these  folk!" 

A  woman  living  in  that  street  cried  out:  "It  is  as  those 
two  say!  I'll  follow  the  Merlins  who  taught  the  children 
so  well!" 

Esperance  stretched  out  her  arms.  "O  friends,  we  have 
had  enough  of  smiting!  They  are  as  helpless  as  are  chil 
dren!" 

Paris  gathered  here  in  this  street  let  those  endangered 
go;  let  them  enter  the  house  where  the  Merlins  lived. 
There,  at  the  top  of  the  house,  during  that  week's  madness, 
they  stayed  obscure,  unharmed;  at  the  end  of  it  got  some 
how  from  Paris,  to  the  frontier,  over  the  frontier. 

Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin  closed  their  school.  In  Paris 
lay  Freedom,  wounded  in  her  own  house.  .  .  . 

The  two  were  of  the  months  that  followed  and  not  of 
them.  They  were  of  the  Revolution,  but  not  of  the  anger, 
revenge,  and  fear  that  wove  the  ugly  garment.  Long  since 
they  had  themselves  worn  the  ugly  garment.  Shreds  and 


JEAN  AND  ESPERANCE  421 

patches  of  it  might  yet  cling,  and  in  times  of  inner  weak 
ness  burn  like  the  Nessus  weave  it  was.  But  as  a  whole 
they  wore  it  not;  their  being  had  discarded  it. 

In  this  time  and  place  they  were  not  Jacobin,  they 
hardly  seemed  Girondin.  To  the  unaided  eye  they  did  not 
plot  nor  plan.  They  went  about,  and  it  seemed  that  they 
were  concerned  only  with  helping  individual  wretchedness. 
Perhaps  they  themselves  saw  something  further  and  wider 
than  the  immediate  and  individual.  .  .  . 

A  power  that  was  simple  and  strong,  direct  and  friendly, 
became  a  raft  to  sustain  them  in  the  boiling  sea  of  the 
here  and  now.  Infuriated  men  and  women,  men  and 
women  gnawed  by  suspicion  of  all  neighbours  and  things, 
even,  it  might  seem,  of  picture  and  statue  and  of  the  mov 
ing  air,  yet  trusted  them  and  let  them  pass.  Mad  Paris 
that  tore  its  own  flesh  tore  not  them.  They  stayed  many 
months  in  this  trebly-fevered  world.  All  that  might  be 
perceived  was  that  a  few  minds  caught  from  them  calm 
and  reflection,  followed  them  into  insight. 

Winter,  and  the  red  robe  showed  redder  yet,  and  the 
black  shadows  blacker  yet.  Now  the  guillotine  took  toll, 
took  toll,  took  toll.  Spring  with  her  bright  laughter,  but 
the  earth  more  maddened,  more  terror-struck;  summer, 
and  the  wild  pace  heightened.  .  .  . 

Jean  and  Esperance  sat  in  a  starlight  night  upon 
that  bit  of  level  roof  just  without  their  attic  door.  They 
leaned  against  the  parapet,  they  looked  afar  and  down 
ward. 

"Fear  and  hate  and  love  and  courage  —  all  in  the  alem 
bic  !  See  the  red,  the  green,  the  blue  —  the  lion,  the  rose, 
the  lily.  .  .  .  Salamander,  sylph,  undine  and  gnome  —  the 
beast  and  the  human  one  and  the  god  walking  free.  .  .  ." 


422  THE   WANDERERS 

Their  hands  touched  upon  the  parapet,  they  looked  afar 
over  the  city.  "Babylon — " 

"Rome  and  an  amphitheatre  there  —  O  the  children 
down  below!" 

They  sat  there  long,  watching  as  from  a  tower  head.  A 
meteor  gleamed.  "I  think  that  soon  we  shall  leave  this 
house  that  we  have  loved.  The  city  maddens  more  and 
more.  We  shall  not  escape  accusation." 

"No.  .  .  .  Prison  —  death  —  life  again!" 

The  suns  wheeled  in  space.  The  invisible  centres  indrew 
and  outflung. 

Three  nights  after  this  they  were  taken.  Accused  of 
plots  —  known  to  have  succoured  Foes.  They  came  before 
judges  who  once  had  had  some  knowledge  of  them,  but  in 
delirium  old  knowledges  pass,  and  it  made  no  difference. 
But  the  essential  unity  of  the  two  so  impressed  itself  that 
none  seemed  to  think  of  parting  them.  Together  they 
came  into  prison. 

Choked  were  the  prisons  of  Paris.  Space  once  unused 
was  brought  into  requisition,  corridors  and  vacant  guard 
rooms,  rooms  not  meant  for  prisoners,  rooms  looking 
through  fair-sized  windows  upon  courtyards.  Prisoners 
went  every  day  from  prison  to  death,  but  immediately 
more  prisoners  filled  their  places.  Jean  and  Esperance 
looked  with  others  out  of  fair-sized  windows;  with  others 
were  let  to  move  about  in  a  small  courtyard,  Patriot- 
guarded. 

One  great  tree  stood  in  this  yard  and  underneath  had 
been  placed  heavy  benches.  Here,  through  much  of  the 
day,  might  sit  the  prisoners. 

None  knew,  in  the  unreason  of  the  time,  why  some  scarce 
touched  prison  before  the  tumbrils  came  for  them,  taking 


JEAN  AND   ESPERANCE  423 

them  away  to  the  place  of  death,  and  why  some  were  left 
so  long  in  prison.  Some  were  left  so  long  that  in  a  strange 
and  piteous  way  the  place  grew  homelike.  In  this  prison  a 
cluster  of  persons  were  so  kept  from  week  to  week,  from 
month  to  month. 

There  was  a  group.  ...  None  knew  why  after  long 
crowding  this  prison  should  now  by  degrees  be  emptied, 
leaving  at  last  a  handful.  None  knew  why  it  did  not  at 
once  fill  again,  nor  why  these  few  were  left  like  shades  or 
prophecies,  in  the  comfortless  rooms,  in  the  sombre  court 
yard,  under  the  sombre  tree. 

All  was  not  sombre.  This  group  had  become  friends. 
Ripe  autumn  light  lay  at  times  upon  the  stones  and  made 
the  tree  aerial.  Sitting  on  the  steps  before  Death's  great 
door  the  hearts  of  men  and  women  were  unbound,  their 
minds  enlarged.  More  than  twice  or  thrice  a  day  the  grey 
walls  threw  back  laughter.  Those  there  were  who  thought, 
imagined,  visioned.  Underneath  the  pall  the  good-as-dead 
smiled  and  planned  the  dawn. 

Jean  and  Esperance  Merlin  sat,  part  of  this  handful, 
beneath  the  tree.  This  individual  earth-summer  was  turn 
ing  toward  brown  autumn,  toward  winter  icy-fingered. 
The  leaves  of  the  tree  were  drifting  down.  But  ever,  be 
hind  the  winter,  might  be  seen  another  spring. 

In  this  cluster  of  prisoners  were  men  and  women,  the 
young,  those  at  prime  and  the  old.  Many  grades  of 
opinion  were  there,  various  lives  and  sorrows  and  joys. 
But  all  now  were  friends,  and  as  friends  sat  and  talked. 

They  talked  of  Freedom.  .  . 

It  seemed  that  it  was  the  Unimprisonable. 

Fell  a  bright  evening,  soft  and  bright  and  sweet  in  the 
courtyard,  beneath  the  tree  from  which  the  leaves  were 


424  THE   WANDERERS 

falling.  Toward  sunset  came  a  visitation,  a  gaoler  and 
men  with  tri-colour  sashes,  officers  of  the  Terror,  of  that 
bloody  excrescence  upon  Revolution.  "To-morrow  other 
folk  here,  but  none  here  who  are  now  here!" 

"Unless  it  be  their  ghosts  — " 

They  turned  and  went,  leaving  the  gold  light  in  the 
courtyard.  "Imperishably  here,  too!"  said  Esperance 
Merlin.  "How  many  prisons,  and  how  many  leave- 
takings  of  prisons!  Let  it  pass  into  a  mood,  grave  and 
lifted!" 

The  rooms  darkened,  the  courtyard  darkened.  This 
cluster  of  prisoners  sat  quietly,  talked  quietly  until  the 
stars  shone  like  fruit  in  the  tree.  They  parted,  to  sleep,  or 
to  lie  straight  and  still  upon  their  pallets,  or  to  rise  and 
measuredly  pace,  through  the  night,  their  prison  room. 
The  night  passed.  In  the  faintest  dawn,  by  candlelight, 
they  were  brought  together  in  the  courtyard.  Food  and 
drink  were  given  them,  and  they  waited  here  for  the 
wagons  of  death. 

Among  the  distinguishing  characteristics  of  this  time 
must  be  placed  courage  before  the  death  of  the  body.  None 
of  this  especial  cluster  lacked  that  courage.  It  had  been 
long  a  cluster,  thought  and  feeling  running  swiftly  from 
globe  to  globe.  The  eastern  sky,  behind  the  building  line, 
began  to  glow. 

Said  an  old  man,  "When  I  was  ten  years  old  I  knew 
part  of  a  lane  that  led  from  our  farm.  It  ran  a  long  way, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  end  in  a  rock  wall.  I  thought  that  it 
ended  there.  When  I  made  up  stories  to  myself  about  it, 
I  always  said c  the  end ' !  One  day  I  hid  from  my  mother  and 
went  fearfully  up  that  long  way  just  to  see  the  end.  And 
when  I  got  there  the  lane  bent  around  the  rock  wall?  and 


JEAN   AND   ESPERANCE  425 

there  was  a  road,  a  wider  road.  ...  It  astonished  me  and 
pleased  me.  .  .  ." 

Jean  Merlin  spoke.  "There  is  a  network  of  roads  —  and 
one  passing  out  of  the  net.  ..." 

Said  a  woman:  "Shall  we  have  Freedom  here  —  here  on 
earth?  O  my  country!  O  my  world!" 

Espe ranee  turned  to  her,  took  her  hand.  "Oh,  widened 
the  country,  and  transformed  the  world!  And  here  a 
haven  of  rest  and  here  again  long  adventure.  But  ever 
a  richer  rest  and  ever  a  higher  adventure!  And  ever 
more  worth  while  —  ever  a  stronger  and  sweeter  taste. 
Ever  more  real,  and  ever  better  choice  of  what  shall  be 
real—" 

They  heard  the  tumbrils,  the  wagons  of  death.  These 
stopped,  the  barred  gate  of  the  courtyard  opened.  The 
sky  was  coral  red  behind  the  tree.  A  still  dawn,  and  the 
leaves  falling  gently  from  the  boughs.  .  .  . 

The  streets  and  houses  of  the  city,  the  moving  people, 
indifferent  now,  so  often  had  they  seen  them,  to  these 
wagons,  the  sky  above  the  city.  .  .  .  Jean  and  Esperance 
sat  side  by  side.  "When  this  day,  too,  shall  be  one  of 
many  past  days  —  and  we  strike  the  note  again  and  recall 
it,  and  say,  'Even  then  the  bitter  bore  the  sweet.  .  .  .' '' 

"Together.  .  .  .  The  widening  ring  of  the  together. 
Fused  —  the  this  and  that,  the  we  and  they  fused.  .  .  . 
Then  is  born  the  immortal  being  of  all  the  memories!  Then 
begins  the  deep  adventure  of  that  That!" 

"Are  you  woman  —  am  I  man?   We  are  one!" 

"Are  these  who  go  with  us  others?  Are  these  others  in 
the  streets,  and  these  in  the  square  to  which  we  come?  — 
O  action  within  and  upon  One's  self!  O  moulding  hand 
moulding  One's  self!  And  then,  far  beyond  and  overhead, 


426  THE  WANDERERS 

again  the  huge,  the  sweet  adventure!  .  .  .  Out  of  One's 
self  to  make  again  the  Child,  to  make  again  the  Com 
rade—" 

All  around  shone  the  bright  morning  — 


THE    END 


VC  46355 


M5OO128 


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